Rowan and Hazel
by Clear Skies
Summary: It was cold, freezing cold. The shock of impact sent his senses fleeing for cover of darkness; the cold overwhelmed the few that lingered.
1. Arrival

My first foray into the Earthsea universe, and I hope a worthwhile one. I've tried to stick as closely to the canon as I can, so forgive me my blunders.  
The Earthsea trilogy is copyrighted to Ursula K Le Guin, and as such I have no permission to use the settings, characters, etc. I do so without sanction but with great thanks to Ms Le Guin for creating such a wonderful universe.  
Please drop me a note at the end and tell me what you thought of it. There are (hopefully) more chapters to come.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
_This is possibly the most miserable I have ever been in my life. _  
So thought Kell as he huddled dejectedly in the bottom of his small boat. Never a great weatherworker, he had seemingly lost even what little talent he had for calling the magewind - only luck and the goodwill of the worldly wind kept him on his course.   
At least he could tell that much. Though the Master Windkey had despaired of teaching him more than the rudiments of weathercraft, he had often commented on Kell's impressive sense of direction. It was an unusual talent, to be sure, but right now Kell would trade it all for just a breath of magewind. What good was direction without speed? Any compass could tell which way was north, but only a wizard's power could fill his sail with wind.   
He cursed his lack of talent, glaring up at the dark clouds that saw fit to drench him to the skin with frigid rain. Even a minor weatherworker had the skill to send away the rain; instead, Kell must freeze. No illusion could keep him warm, nor could he summon heat to dry his sodden cloak.   
Before him, dull and hazy through the rain, the indistinct shape of his destination loomed up before him. If the wind held, he might make it there before dark.   
  
_ This is possibly the most miserable I have ever been in my life. _  
So thought the king of all the Archipelago as he stared dejectedly out of his high window across the Bay of Havnor. The golden circlet of office hung forgotten from the arm of his chair; disregarded, his gold-chased robes of state were flung in disarray in a corner.   
_ If only I could fling the kingship away thus,_ thought the king. And then, inside him, that spark of rebellion caught on the dry tinder of youth, and Arren, the name he had borne and the life he had lived before the kingship, flared up within.   
_ I have always been a Prince's son, but what fate brought me to the Throne of Havnor? I am no Morred, no Serriadh, no Maharion. What hope have I of unifying the Archipelago? I might as well rule under the Rune of Unfulfilled Promises... _  
He cast his eyes to the west, towards the land of Paln, out of sight across the sea. Alone of the Inner Lands, Paln in its pride had failed to recognise his kingship. It was a studied insult - not an act of war, far from it, but an insult nonetheless. Paln had sent no ambassador, no emissary to the Court of Havnor, as almost every other island had done when Arren had been crowned King of the Archipelago by the Master Patterner of Roke. Now Paln's insolence continued - its Lord refused to come to Havnor to swear fealty and would not even offer hospitality to the king's messengers, returning them whence they came with all haste.   
Arren sighed and rested his chin in his hands. Sometimes, when the circlet was removed and the robes of state taken off, he felt very much the seventeen-year-old boy that he was underneath. No matter that he had sailed the seas with the Archmage of Roke, had seen dragons and walked the dry land of death, had passed through the Mountains of Pain and come to the far shore of the day; he was still very much a boy, too young in all but wisdom to sit on the throne of Morred.   
_ What is to be done about Paln? The Lord sits in his palace and sneers at me, will not even speak to my messengers. Without Paln, I am only half a king.   
_ He smiled humourlessly as he remembered a phrase that one of his courtiers had used that morning to describe the rainstorm that even now darkened the coast of Havnor.   
_ A day old and weakening. Just like my kingship. _  
Suddenly, out on the rainswept waters, a light appeared. It was no more than a sliver of bright silver in the vast expanse of grey, but his eye was caught and held by it, and he knew it for what it was.   
_ Magefire._   
  
The werelight flickered fitfully for a moment on Kell's staff before blooming into the familiar blazing silver radiance. It was a trick learnt by every apprentice in his first months on Roke, but it never ceased to amaze Kell. Fire from nothing, that burned and burned and did not burn away, that could be called and snuffed with a word or a gesture. Light at need...such as now, when he had been cursed for nearly smashing his tiny craft to matchwood on the side of a trader vessel bound, as he was, for Havnor Great Port. For defence, and reassurance, he called up the magelight to his staff, warning all who sailed the waters that here was a wizard of Roke, come to see the King.   
The slender rod of hazel was faintly warm under his hand, as it always was. He held it vertically, watching it burn with argent fire, and almost lost his footing as a towering wave struck his boat.   
"Fool," chided the Master Windkey gently from somewhere in his memory. "Though a mage may steer with a word and call the wind with a gesture, it profits him nothing if he cannot handle a boat by himself."   
Laughing at himself, his good mood restored by the comfort of the magelight, Kell got a secure footing and guided the boat carefully, with magic and tiller, through the press of ships to a rainswept jetty. A truculent man tried to charge him two copper pieces for a tie-up; in response, Kell stepped lightly onto the jetty, cast the painter back into the boat and pushed it off with his foot, murmuring as he did so a single word in the Language of the Making. _ Itera_ , meaning 'return'. He had laboured long and hard on the spell to send the boat back to Roke once he had no further use for it, and now watched jubilantly as it slipped slowly from the harbour and out across the bay.   
Shouldering his pack, which contained all his worldly possessions, he set out up the road from the harbour and into Havnor Great Port. The air was fresh and clear, and the noises of the city were sharp around him - shopkeepers crying their wares, people talking and laughing, a thousand tunes vying with one another as street musicians sent sweet notes out into the air. Recognising a fragment of a tune he knew, he hummed cheerfully under his breath, his slender hazel staff tapping out the accompaniment on the flagstones.   
  
However, the refrain died on his lips as he rounded a corner and saw the Sword of Erreth-Akbe gleaming in the sunlight. The light seemed suddenly harsh, the sounds discordant, the crowds oppressive. Kell's enthusiasm seeped away; he felt very alone in the midst of all these people. No longer the holiday he had convinced himself it would be, this journey had abruptly assumed its true significance. He was far from the safety and familiarity of Roke, sent here to the Palace of Havnor to ply his trade with the King of all the Archipelago. He, a lowly wizard, when the King had all the Masters of Roke at his beck and call. What use would he be to the King, with his paltry skills and stumbling tongue?   
Heavy-hearted, Kell made his way slowly up the road towards the palace, willing his feet to carry him onward. Those who met him pitied him from a distance - a grey-cloaked wizard of Roke looking as though every care in the world had been heaped upon his shoulders. "A messenger for the King," one woman whispered to her neighbour, "going with grave news from the look of him."   
Coming to the imposing main gate of the Palace, he was challenged by a self-important guard. Kell could have cast the puffed-up man aside with a word and a movement of his staff, but instead he rifled through his pack until he unearthed the letter written by the Master Patterner himself, Azver of Roke. The guard's eyes widened as he read it - the names of the Nine Masters of Roke obviously still carried weight - and Kell was quickly waved through, to be greeted by a pleasant, middle-aged servant. She guided him through the marble halls of the Palace of Maharion, some crumbling with age, others so new-cut that the marble was rough underfoot. The king had begun the work of rebuilding the ancient place, still stubbornly called the New Palace by the people of Havnor, but it would be some time yet before it was truly New. Bureaucrats carrying piles of parchment scurried here and there, interspersed with workers surveying for the next renovation project.   
The attendant chattered amiably as they trekked the corridors, seemingly undaunted by this silent wizard of Roke. Indeed, Kell's youth and his awe at the majestic, timeworn palace may have led the kindly lady to try and put him at his ease.   
"This is the base of the central tower," she told him as they came to a small oak door, changed by time into a dark substance that looked stronger and more resilient than rock. "Atop this tower stands the Sword of Erreth-Akbe, that was brought back from Selidor many years ago." Then she ducked her head, and chuckled at her own presumption. "But of course you'd know that, sir. Wizards know everything."   
In spite of his apprehension, Kell found himself warming to this good-natured woman. "Not everything," he told her, smiling ruefully. "_ Infinite are the arguments of mages_ . There are some things - indeed, many things - that even the Masters of Roke do not know, and cannot agree upon. However, my lady," he sketched a courteous bow despite his churning stomach, and she dimpled, "that particular tale is known to me."   
She smiled at him with real warmth, then, and did not take her eyes off him as she knocked at the door. After a few seconds, there were footsteps on the other side, and it was opened a crack by another of the guards.   
"Yes?"   
Kell's escort stepped forward. "Master Kell of Roke, to see the King."   
The single visible eye swivelled to study Kell; after a few moments, during which his mouth went dry and his stomach turned somersaults, the door opened to admit him.   
  
Arren sighed in frustration, turning away from the window. _ I cannot force Paln to accept me, and yet I cannot rule without their fealty. If the Lord will not come to Havnor, neither can I work diplomacy. What on earth shall I do?   
_ A glimmer of an idea woke in his mind. Though traditionally aloof, Paln had its allies and its enemies, like any other land. Its rivalry with its neighbour, Semel, was famous; its friendship with Hosk was less well-known. Yet he knew, and wondered if he could find a way to work it to his advantage.   
_ Perhaps if I ask the Lord of Hosk to travel to Paln and have an informal talk with its ruler, one Lord to another...maybe he could convince Paln to see the error of its ways. And we could offer them something in exchange, get Hosk to tacitly remind Paln of the benefits of my reign - a place on my Inner Council, maybe._   
Resolving to deal with the matter in the morning, he returned to the book he had been reading, hoping to lose himself in the familiar Deed of Erreth-Akbe.   
It was not to be. Before five minutes had passed, there was a knock at his door. He sighed, marked the page, and closed the book. "Come."   
A servant opened the door, a young girl with bright eyes and dark skin. "You have a visitor, my lord. A wizard, come from Roke. Would you like to receive him in the audience chamber?"   
Arren sat bolt upright. A wizard! The Master Patterner, maybe. Or...no. Ged was no longer a wizard. Still... "No. Send him here."   
She bobbed a curtsey and withdrew. After a few minutes, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a guard knocked respectfully on the half-open door.   
"Master Kell of Roke."   
Arren's eyes widened in surprise as a young man clad in a grey cloak stepped into the room and bowed self-consciously. A pair of deep green eyes looked up at him in awe from beneath an unruly shock of golden hair. If not for the cloak and staff, he would have sworn this was a joke.   
"My lord," the boy said nervously.   
  
The guard, a gruff man with the earth-brown skin and city accent of a Havnorian, sent a runner up the stairs to the King's chambers before leading Kell to a small chamber not far down the corridor. The room was warm and cosy; another guard sat at a small table in the corner, playing patience with a much-used pack of cards.   
"I hope you don't mind waiting, m'lord," the guard said equably, "but those stairs go up a long way, and though Lyssi's fast it'll be a minute or two before she has an answer for you."   
Kell nodded gratefully and sank into a chair near the fire, stretching out his long legs towards it. The guard at the table glanced at him a few times, surreptitiously, then gathered up his cards and cleared his throat.   
"Um...m'lord?"   
'Call me Kell,' was on his lips, but his mouth was too dry to utter a word. Instead, he simply nodded.   
"Is it true, as the tales say, that wizards can pluck birds from the air and make winds blow with naught but a word?"   
His companion shot him a warning glance, but Kell smiled inwardly. Cooped up in the palace, the guards would have little chance to see a street conjuror, and would have heard only second-hand tales of magic. To show this fellow what he wanted to see would take little effort – mostly illusion, which he was good at, and a little weatherworking.   
Magewind first. Drawing on one of his minor talents, he called a breath of cool air into the room, sending it dancing around the floor, making the flames of the fire jump and crackle.   
Even as the guard's face broke into a smile, Kell reached over and picked up the pack of cards from the tabletop. Quelling the breeze with a movement of his fingers, he murmured a word over the cards and then flung them up into the air. The guard's expression changed to one of pure joy as the cards became a flight of swallows, swooping and gliding around the room, singing in their high liquid voices. As one, they circled his head once, then flew down onto the table – where they became again nothing more than a pack of cards scattered across the tabletop.   
Kell looked up to find the guard grinning hugely at him, his face alight with simple wonder. Even his taciturn companion in the corner was smiling. Kell chuckled along with them, knowing that here at least he had made friends.   
However, his good humour vanished as the girl, Lyssi, poked her head round the door.   
"The king would like to see you now."   
"If you'll follow me, m'lord," the guard said deferentially, all trace all trace of his brusque manner gone. Reluctantly, for he had been enjoying the company and had almost forgotten his nervousness, Kell picked up his staff and followed him up the stairs.   
  
The spiralling staircase seemed to go on forever, and Kell was soon out of breath. Every so often they would pass a window looking out over Havnor or over the Bay, but he had no time and no inclination to admire the view. All his energy went on persuading his feet to keep moving, fighting both fatigue and his apprehension at meeting the King.   
Eventually, and all too soon, they came to the king's door, left ajar by Lyssi. The guard knocked, and announced Kell formally. Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the man and into the room.   
What he saw surprised him immensely. He had heard stories about the handsome Young King, but he had not realised that he would be this young – or this handsome. A boy barely a year older than himself looked back at him with dark eyes from beneath a waterfall of dark hair. A fine black tunic covered his lithe, lean body, leaving his golden-brown arms bare. His face was finely moulded as though cast in bronze, with fine cheekbones and lips curved in a slight smile.   
Remembering himself, Kell bowed deeply, still unable to take his eyes from the King. "My lord," he murmured through dry lips. 


	2. A cat may look at a king

The wizard stood as if frozen to the spot - only when the guard tactfully withdrew did he stir, shaking his head as though rousing himself from a trance.   
"Please, sit down." Suiting actions to words, Arren lowered himself onto the rug in front of the fire. It was a tactic he often used to put people at their ease - not wishing to elevate themselves above the King, they would have to join him on the floor, where formality was hard. Indeed, after looking round nervously for a moment, Kell sat down on the other side of the fireplace, crossing his legs and removing his grey robe. Underneath he wore a simple blue shirt and black trousers that accentuated his slender form and long legs.   
_He cannot be older than seventeen_, thought Arren, and then almost laughed aloud. Here he was, only eighteen years old himself, questioning the Masters of Roke for sending him a wizard barely younger than he was.   
"How was the journey from Roke? I hear the sea was rough," he said, poking at the faltering fire with a stick, keeping one eye on Kell. The young wizard shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat before answering.   
"No more so than usual, my lord. The world's wind was kind where the magewind failed."   
This last was said self-deprecatingly, and Arren shot his visitor a glance. The boy looked tired and angry with himself - and what was that about the magewind failing?   
He tried another tack. "And how is the school of Roke?"   
At that Kell winced and looked away. "Not well, my lord. It seems the Masters cannot agree on anything any more."   
"Oh?" Arren leaned forward, catching and holding Kell's eye, willing him to say more.   
"Yes, my lord." The wizard's gaze flickered briefly to the floor, then back up as if he had made the decision to carry on talking. "The Master Summoner sits in the Great House and the Master Patterner in the Immanent Grove, and neither will speak to the other. The School still teaches, but the Masters argue over everything - who is to be the new Archmage, who are to be made wizards and sorcerers this year, who shall be sent where and on what errand." He smiled ruefully. "I myself am here because of one such argument. The Master Patterner asserted that a wizard must be sent to Havnor to aid the King; the Summoner decreed that it was not Roke's place to rule or to interfere with the ruling of the Archipelago. The Patterner said that the King must have advisors; the Summoner invited him to go himself if he so desired. And so at last I was chosen - a hollow victory for the Master Patterner." He spread his hands helplessly. "The Summoner chose me because I am too young and too unskilled to be of any use."   
"But you are a wizard."   
Again the rueful smile. Kell fingered the neck of his discarded cloak - which Arren saw with a shock was fastened not with the silver clasp of a sorcerer but with a simple leather thong.   
Following his gaze, Kell nodded sadly. "A wizard, but no sorcerer. You see, my lord, to be a sorcerer one must have at least some talent in all the areas of magery. I have no gift for weatherworking, none for healing, and I have no voice or memory for songs. All nine Masters must consent for an apprentice to be made sorcerer, and neither Windkey nor Chanter nor Herbal could support me with my paltry gifts."   
Arren was incredulous. "If your gifts are so paltry, then how did you come by your staff?"   
For the first time there was true warmth in Kell's smile. "The Master Patterner took me in. He taught me himself, in the Immanent Grove, all that I needed to know to become a mage. Only four strong gifts are necessary to be made a wizard, and the Patterner taught me illusion, naming, shape-changing and his own art, that of seeing patterns in the world where others see only chaos." Kell's eyes misted over with the faraway look of one remembering happier times. "Mages talk of the Balance, of Equilibrium, but only the Patterner can see that of which the others speak."   
He shook himself like a dog, then looked back at Arren. "Even this was contested by the Master Summoner. He claimed that the Patterner had forged my patterning Gift, since only he could sense it. In return," his lips curved upward, "the Master Patterner taught me everything he could of the Summoner's own Art. Without his help, his guidance, I would never have become a mage."   
Arren sat back, pleased with at how relaxed Kell had become, but disturbed by these tales of unrest among the Wise. "You said the Summoner chose you, and yet this letter," he turned the parchment over in his hands, "is written by the Patterner."   
Kell shook his head slowly. "The Summoner bade me go; the Patterner sent me on my way. If any _chose_ me, it was the Master Doorkeeper - though the heavens only know why. He came to me weeks before I was sent and told me that I would be leaving Roke within the month. I asked him what he meant, but he would not say." He shrugged helplessly. "Why he chose me, I do not know."   
Arren smiled. "The Master Doorkeeper does little without reason."   
  
Kell was finding it hard to keep his anguish in check. "But why me? I am so young..."   
At that the king laughed, lightly and easily. "Then that makes two of us! At least _you_ were trained - I was taken from Enlad and deposited in Havnor with barely five minutes' warning! An eighteen-year-old son of an island prince to rule the Archipelago!"   
Kell said nothing, thinking that the king had done more than he could hope to even if he studied night and day in the Immanent Grove for another two years.   
Serious once more, the king fixed him with a solemn look. "So. You have been sent here as my court wizard."   
Kell blushed. "I'll serve you as far as I am able, my lord."   
"Good." Getting gracefully to his feet, the king paced over to the window and looked out to the west, towards the setting sun. "What do you know about Paln?"   
Kell was already dredging frantically through his memory before he realised what the truthful answer would be. "Very little, my lord."   
The king chuckled. "A good answer. For who _does_ know much about Paln? It is an aloof land, cut off from its neighbours, refusing to acknowledge my kingship. What do you think I should do?"   
After a moment's thought, Kell ventured an answer. "Sire...no land can survive alone. Every island, even Roke, must trade with other lands. If Paln's chief trading partner were to gently remind them that they are, for better or worse, part of the Archipelago, they might decide to recognise the Archipelagan government."   
The king spun round, his face lighting up. "Exactly! If they will not listen to me, perhaps they will to others." He clapped Kell on the shoulder. "You will make a fine advisor."   
  
To Kell, though the routine of the following days was much the same, the content was very different. The king heard grievances referred to him from the courts of Havnor, and sometimes from other lands, and would give judgement. He often asked Kell's advice, and often took it. Then there were meetings of the Inner Council, with Kell the honorary thirty-first member. They debated matters of state such as taxation, relations with the Kargad Empire and the situation in the various Reaches; when disagreements arose, the king could be overruled as often as he triumphed. Though Kell knew little of the Kargad Empire or the Reaches, he found it easy to weigh up both sides of any debate, and was frequently called upon by the king to sum up a discussion.   
All this exhilarated Kell - to be such an integral part of these discussions, these far-reaching decisions, appealed to both the wizard and the youth in him. He always came out energised, feeling that he had played his part, however small.   
And yet, and yet...whenever he cast a sideways glance at the king, he was appalled at how tired the young man looked. As the day wore on he appeared more and more tired, until by late evening he was pale and drawn and completely drained. With no more than a perfunctory good-night, the king would retire to his rooms, to try and recoup the energy he had ploughed into ruling a vast and fragmentary kingdom.   
  
One night, however, there was a knock at Kell's door. Absent-mindedly, he twirled a finger, and the door creaked open.   
_More than half the palace rebuilt and none of the doors oiled, _he thought ruefully, running a hand through his hair.   
"Um..."   
Kell snapped upright, dropping his book, and in his haste accidentally snuffed the ball of werelight floating above his head. His eyes blurred with after-images and he blinked in the dim candlelight, trying to get his vision back.   
When his eyes finally cleared, he smiled apologetically up at the king. "Sorry, my lord. Force of habit."   
The king smiled back tiredly. "Doors opening by themselves is the least of my worries. Hosk has failed."   
Kell sat forward, his face full of concern. "Paln didn't respond?"   
The king lowered himself onto the floor, landing with a thud and an exhausted sigh. "Not only did they not respond, they did not even allow him to land. The Lord's ship was driven back almost onto a reef by a wind that sprang up from nowhere. The ship's weatherworker was quite at a loss to explain it, but he suspects magery."   
Kell shook his head in disbelief. "Mages? On Paln? None from Roke have gone there to serve in years. The Court of Paln has never requested any wizard from the School, and we have sent none."   
"Nevertheless," the king mused, "the Lord of Hosk assures me that this wind was mageborn. What can you see?"   
This was an allusion to another of Kell's unusual talents - he had an exceptional, if sometimes unreliable, gift of farsightedness. He now invoked it, closing his eyes and stretching out both hands, palm down, in front of him.   
"Clear skies over Havnor, but clouds rushing in from the west," he murmured, extending his awareness outward. "A veil is over Paln tonight - a mist covers it, and I cannot see through it."   
  
Arren sighed, and then was gripped by a terrible longing. "Forget Paln," he urged, suddenly impulsive. "What do you see to the north-east?"   
Kell's forehead furrowed for a second, then smoothed again. "Rain over Oranea and Barnisk, and cloud down on Gont," the wizard said, so low that he was almost whispering.   
Arren was completely spellbound. "Closer," he begged. "Tell me more of Gont."   
"A storm hangs over the mountain's peak; the sea is rough, and rain pours down upon the villages."   
"Do you see a little village, on the shoulder of the mountain?" Arren asked, his voice almost pleading. "And a farm a little higher still?"   
Kell's face bore an expression of intense concentration. "...Yes."   
"Can you see inside?"   
The wizard's voice was showing signs of strain. "I see...a man, sitting at a table, drinking water from a rough clay cup. He looks tired and worn, but there is great strength in him..." His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise; his hands fell back to his sides, the spell forgotten. "It is the Archmage, Lord Sparrowhawk!"   
Arren hung his head in shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to use your talents so frivolously."   
"Why did you want to see him?" Kell's eyes held his; he could not avoid the question.   
"Because every night I see the dark land where he led me," Arren replied heavily. "In my dreams I retrace our steps, over that low wall of stones into the Dry Land; only he is not there to guide me. I followed him because he was my lord, and I loved him, but when I dream there is nothing. No-one to follow, and no-one to lead me back."   
  
Abruptly, the king shook his head. "Tell me of your homeland, Kell. Tell me of the green fields of Ilien."   
Kell looked out of the north-facing window, his eyes unseeing. "My mind is not with Ilien tonight, my lord, but with the land of my mother. The northernmost isle of Enwas, far to the north of here. It is a cold land, where little grows; there, life is hard, an unending struggle to survive. Yet the spirit of the people is strong and virtuous, and it broke my mother's heart to leave them."   
"Why did she?" The king's face was sympathetic in the warm candlelight.   
"She was taken by a slave-trader, who saw profit in the fair hair and blue eyes of the northern folk." Kell smiled wanly. "Though I have my father's eyes, my mother gave me her golden hair - and her memories of home."   
He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I am sorry, my lord. You came to me for comfort, and I offer none. What can I do for you?"   
The king touched a hand to his forehead. "I have not slept well for three nights. Whenever I close my eyes it is the same dream, the Dry Land. If I could only sleep one whole night..."   
Kell spread his hands. "I wish I could help. I'm afraid I am no healer. Even simple sleep-charms have little effect when I try them." He shrugged helplessly. "You'd be better with a village witch, my lord."   
The king sighed. "No matter. You already do more than enough for me, and I'm grateful for that. Good night."   
"Good night, my lord."   
As he watched the king depart, an idea began to form in the back of Kell's mind. _I cannot cure him by magic, but perhaps by magic I can comfort him...   
_The words of the Changing Spell came quickly and easily to his lips. Taking his staff in both hands, he held it out in front of him, drawing power from it to effect the Change.   
A mist spread throughout the room, emanating from no discernible source; when it cleared, a small silver tabby cat jumped lightly down from the bed and padded out into the corridor.   
  
Arren sat with his face turned to the open window, the night breeze cooling the heat from his cheeks. _With the failure of Hosk, and the possibility of magic at work on Paln, the situation has become infinitely more complex.   
_He ran a hand tiredly through his hair, then shut the window and turned away. His bed looked at him accusingly, but he couldn't face the Dry Land, not yet. Instead, he poured himself a cup of wine and sat by the fire, sipping slowly and letting the warmth suffuse his weary body.   
_Mages on Paln again, after so long. Ged said that the mageblood of Paln had all but died out - that Cob was one of the few who still practiced its brand of magic. Yet the Lord of Hosk swears that magic was at work on the Sea of Paln, and his best weatherworker could not outdo it. What does it all mean?   
_He sighed, letting his head fall back against the cold stone wall. Every muscle in his body felt overused, overstretched, exhausted. His mind was dull, his thoughts sluggish; sleep was creeping up on him.   
_Not the Dry Land again. It haunts my dreams - those empty streets where lovers pass as though they never met, those silent towns where brothers do not speak and friends do not know each other. I stand at the crossroads and see faces I know - my mother, father, sisters, brothers, friends - and I call to them, but they turn away and do not meet my eyes. I reach out to them and they walk on by, oblivious… _  
The sound of the door opening roused him from his half-slumber, and a small tabby cat padded into the room on noiseless paws. He wasn't unduly surprised - the kitchens kept cats to kill vermin, and every now and then one of them would go on a wander through the palace.   
"Hey there, little one! What're you doing here?"   
  
Kell walked over to the king, still trying to get used to the sensation of having four legs instead of two. He mewed, then climbed onto the king's knee and began to wash himself.   
"There now, make yourself at home," the king chuckled, tickling him gently behind the ears. Kell purred, licking the king's fingers; the young man smiled and ran a hand along the length of his spine.   
"Have you run away from the kitchens, little one? You must be clever, to have found your way up here; we are a long way from the kitchens, aren't we?" Kell rolled over, presenting his stomach to the king, who ran his fingers through the curly fur. "You're a lovely one, then."   
He yawned and stretched, almost dislodging the cat from his knee. "I have to sleep now, little one. Go back to the kitchens and hunt mice; don't concern yourself with me."   
Kell stepped lightly down off the young man's knee, now confident in his new form, but he did not leave as the king suggested. Instead he watched as the king pulled off his shirt, admiring the lithe body beneath, supple and golden in the candlelight. The trousers followed, and then he slipped between the sheets and laid his head on the pillow.   
"Go on, visitor, go back where you came from," the king said gently. Ignoring him, Kell leapt up onto the bed, rubbing himself against a bare shoulder and purring loudly. The king laughed delightedly, curling an arm around him and stroking his head.   
"Well now! Here's a Faithful Companion. Are you going to make sure no-one tries to murder me in my bed?"   
By way of response, Kell stuck out his tongue and licked the tip of the king's nose, making him chuckle again.   
"All right, if you put it like that, you can stay. Just no snoring."   
Kell curled himself up in the curve of the king's neck, feeling the steady thrumming of his pulse. Before long, his objective was achieved - the king had fallen into a deep sleep, beyond the reach of his disturbing dreams.   
  
Arren woke, feeling refreshed for the first time in days. His sleep had been long and untroubled, and he now felt ready to face the ordeal of holding court.   
He was still feeling energised when he went to his rooms at the end of the day - and again, when he was preparing for sleep, the little tabby cat came into his room, jumped onto the bed and curled up. Surprised by the creature's tenacity, Arren smiled to himself and went to sleep.   
Every night the cat would appear, and every morning it would be gone. However, one morning Arren was woken by the little animal.   
  
Kell awoke before dawn, and came to full consciousness almost instantly. He had remained in Changed form far longer than he had intended - a whole night - and that was dangerous. Too long, and the animal mind would subsume the human, leaving him trapped as a cat for the rest of his life.   
Unsteadily, he got to his feet, disentangling himself from the king's dark hair. He jumped to the floor, landing heavily as feline instinct and human consciousness collided. How many legs did he have? Two? Four? He tried compromising on three, but this made his progress across the floor a lurching, drunken one.   
Drunken. It was like being drunk. He could remember when he was little, and his father had given him a glass of wine which he had swallowed down too quickly. It was the same feeling - airy, light-headed, disoriented. His attention span was failing, and it was difficult to concentrate. With an effort, he brought the words of the reversal spell to mind, and held onto them as a drowning man to a log.   
Thus occupied, he failed to notice that he had roused the king.   
  
Arren opened his eyes in time to see the cat jump from the bed to the floor. He lifted his head from the pillow, watching it make its way across the floor.   
"Hey, now! Where are you going?"   
Something was wrong. Its movements weren't smooth - it stumbled, limping as though it had been injured. Quickly, Arren threw off his covers, shaking himself properly awake as he followed the stricken animal.   
He reached the door in time to see it weaving down the corridor, but though he called and whistled the cat ignored him, plodding doggedly on despite its obvious distress.   
Three strides and he was beside it, kneeling down to run a hand along its silken back. It did not stop or turn. He caught its head in both hands and turned it to face him; the eyes stared through him, unseeing.   
What could he do? His doctors would be no help to a cat, and the only man in the Palace at all skilled with animals was the master of the stables. Perhaps Kell's magic would help...   
Evidently the cat felt the same way, for when he released it, it nosed the door to the wizard's room open and went inside. Arren followed, intending to wake Kell and ask his advice.   
He stopped short just inside the room. The wizard's bed was empty, and had not been slept in. Strangest of all, his staff, which a wizard never went anywhere without, was left lying on the end of the bed.   
The cat leapt up onto the bed, scrabbling with its back legs to get its balance, then pushed its nose against the seemingly forgotten staff.   
Arren shivered, feeling a coldness in the room. The air seemed suddenly hazy and bright, as though the moon was shining through a cloud; the haze thickened until he could barely see a thing, then abruptly cleared.   
Where the little silver tabby had been, Kell now knelt on the bed, his fair hair in disarray and his clothes rumpled. He turned his head towards Arren, and the other stepped back with a gasp. For a second he was staring into slit-pupilled yellow eyes; then the wizard blinked, and his eyes were human again, holding a growing expression of dismay and horror.   
"My lord...I...I..."   
Arren stepped forward, cutting off the boy's stammering words; without speaking, he raised a hand to the wizard's head and ran his fingers gently through the tousled hair. Then he leaned closer, and placed a gentle kiss on Kell's lips. 


	3. Essaliel

Kell's heart was racing, pounding in his ears, almost overwhelming him; he sought desperately for words, but none came.   
The king stepped back, looking the speechless wizard directly in the eye.   
"I know what you did for me." The words were fast and low, carrying an intensity like nothing Kell had ever heard before. "The Archmage told me that a wizard changes shape only at great need, for fear that he will be trapped forever in the chosen shape." He moved forward again, catching Kell's face in both hands. "What have I done, that you would risk your life for me?"   
His dark eyes held Kell's; the tension, the emotion in the air was palpable. Kell swallowed hard, forcing his dry throat to respond.   
"My lord..."   
Putting a hand on the back of Kell's neck, the king gently pulled him closer, placing the lightest of kisses on the wizard's unresisting lips.   
"Call me Arren."   
As if a dam had broken inside him, words began to flood out of Kell's mouth, tumbling over one another in their haste.   
"You took me in, made me welcome when I deserved to be turned away. You treated me with kindness, spoke to me as an equal, when I was worth less than a minute of your time. More than that, you were not just my king, but my friend. My lord..." tentatively, he stroked a tendril of hair that hung down over the king's face, "...Arren...whatever I can do, I shall."   
In one graceful movement, Arren slid his arms around Kell's back and pulled him close, his dark hair cushioning the wizard's temple, his own face pressed into the other's tousled hair.   
  
Outside in the corridor, the guard for whom Kell had worked illusion smiled, nodded to himself and gently closed the door.   
  
Eventually Arren loosed his tight embrace, still holding Kell close but standing face to face. He detached one hand from the other boy's waist, bringing it up to brush away a stray golden lock from Kell's face.   
"We are late for council," he murmured, and Kell started. Indeed, the sun was up, and its golden rays painted the walls and ceiling with intermittent gold.   
The two drew apart, not without reluctance, and with a last backward glance Arren departed to his own chambers to prepare himself for the day ahead.   
  
  
_"...Uny and Namien are willing, if the Lord of O is agreeable."_   
Kell started, aware he had been daydreaming. Fortunately, no-one else on the Council seemed to have noticed.   
The discussion was an important one about a new trading agreement between the southerly Inner Lands, but though Kell knew it was important his attention constantly wandered. Arren sat not far away, at ease and yet every inch the king; from where Kell sat he could see Arren framed against a window, his dark eyes flicking back and forth as opposing speakers traded points. His fine cheekbones and handsome face captivated Kell, who found he could not tear his eyes away from the striking young man.   
A chuckle ran round the room as one of the speakers made a humorous remark about his opposing number; during the brief and gentlemanly argument that followed, Arren's dark eyes sought out and held Kell's green ones, and he flashed the wizard a warm smile that made Kell's stomach turn over.   
Finally the Council reached a decision, voting overwhelmingly to support the new agreement, and the court began to break up and go their separate ways in the deepening twilight.   
  
Arren and Kell walked together through the cool corridors of the palace, climbing the long spiral staircase at the heart of the tower until they reached Kell's room.   
Arren stopped on the threshold, resting his head against the doorframe. "A good day."   
Kell turned, smiling. "A good day, my lord."   
"Arren," chided the other boy, laughing quietly.   
Kell walked back towards him, taking his hand and shyly intertwining their fingers. "Arren, then. Or should I call you Lebannen?"   
Arren shook his head. "Everyone knows my true name. Because I could not give it to you, I gave you my old use-name - something no-one else calls me." He squeezed Kell's hand gently. "Because you are special."   
Kell blushed, lowering his eyes. "I'm honoured. In return," he moved closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "my true name is...Oriel."   
Arren started - in the Old Speech, _oriel_ meant _the hazel tree_, just as his own true name, _lebannen_, meant _the rowan_. Then emotion flooded over him as he realised the magnitude of the gift he had been given, for there was nothing of greater importance to a wizard than his true name. "Thank you," he murmured, holding the other boy tightly, tears misting his eyes.   
For a while they stood there, saying nothing, the only sound that of distant waves breaking upon the shores of Havnor Bay. then they drew apart, slightly awkwardly, and Kell began to make ready for the night ahead.   
Arren turned to leave, then stopped. On impulse, he said quietly, "I'll miss you."   
Kell stopped in the act of turning back his bedclothes. "I'm sorry?"   
"Tonight, I mean." The king looked down at the floor. "I haven't dreamed of the Dry Land in four nights. Sleep was easy with you there, comforting me." Abruptly, he shook himself. "I'm sorry. Good night."   
"Goodnight," Kell responded, as Arren left for his own rooms.   
  
Kell couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about the king, tormented by his nightmares, tossing and turning in his bed. _Should I go to him? Do I dare?   
_For a long time he wrestled with himself in the darkness, and then his words came back to him. _Whatever I can do, I shall._   
Pulling his cloak around himself, he slipped quietly from his bed and made his way along the corridor, lighting his path with the tiniest spark of werelight. When he reached Arren's door, he knocked gently, then steeled himself and went in.   
  
The sight that met his eyes caused him to stop just inside the room, his cloak falling unheeded from his shoulders. Arren was leant against the far wall, arms folded, his face turned towards the open window. He was shirtless; the light from the fire burning quietly in the grate cast shadows outlining the lean muscles of his sun-tanned body.   
Realising Kell was in the room, he turned his handsome, dark-eyed face upon the wizard and gave him a smile full of warmth.   
  
Arren pushed himself away from the wall and walked slowly towards the other boy, marvelling at the wizard's lissome build and graceful bearing. He was slender and attractive, his fair skin and golden hair enhanced by the warm firelight. Without his cloak he was clad only in a pair of short trousers which, together with his big green eyes, made him look young and innocent. His body was slim and lightly muscled, boyish shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and long legs.   
Wordlessly, Arren slid his bare arms around the younger boy's warm body, pulling him close. He tilted Kell's chin up, then leant down to meld their lips together.   
The kiss was long and deep. Kell put his arms tentatively around Arren's shoulders; in return, Arren trailed his fingers through Kell's golden hair. Their tongues met and embraced, hesitantly at first, then more daringly as Kell caressed Arren's cheek. The fire flickered in the grate, casting its light across the young couple as they shared for the first time the intimacy of another's touch.   
  
Kell wrapped his arms more tightly around Arren, snuggling down under the sheets and the thick, soft eiderdown. Arren chuckled, resting his head on Kell's shoulder and watching the boy drift slowly into sleep.   
Licking his fingers, he reached out and snuffed the candle by the bedside. Now the only light in the room came from the dying embers of the fire, murmuring softly to themselves in the hearth.   
Pressing a last tender kiss to Kell's forehead, Arren pulled the quilt up around his shoulders and promptly fell asleep. His dreams that night were not of the Dry Land, but of green fields and white mountains, trickling streams and quiet beaches, soft laughter and sparkling water running off golden skin...   
Kell yawned and stretched, waking slowly from sleep. Warm arms were around him and soft hair spread across his chest; smiling, he reached down and brushed a finger over Arren's cheek. He was rewarded by a dark eye opening and turning to look up at him, laughter already waking in its depths.   
"Good morning," he chuckled, tracing the line of Arren's jaw with the back of his finger.   
"Morning already?" the other boy groaned jokingly, pushing hair back out of his eyes. "It can't be."   
"But it is," Kell assured him, rolling easily out of bed and starting to gather up his clothes. Behind him, he heard the floor creak softly as Arren reluctantly hauled himself out of bed. Then there were quiet footsteps, and then silence.   
Throwing his armful of clothes over the nearest chair, Kell turned to find Arren leaning by the window, exactly as he had been the night before, the morning breeze stirring his hair as he gazed out into the sunrise.   
Crossing quietly to where he stood, Kell slid his arms gently around the other boy's waist and rested his chin on Arren's shoulder. "What do you see?"   
Still staring out across Havnor Bay, Arren smiled ruefully. "I can't see it, but I know it's there - a land that hates me, that refuses to believe that I'm anything other than a stuck-up country prince with ideas above his station."   
Sensing that there was something Arren wasn't saying, Kell rephrased his question. "What do you _want_ to see?"   
Surprised by the young wizard's perception, Arren chuckled softly; then his eyes misted over with remembrance. "I remember when the Archmage and I rode from Selidor to Roke on the back of Kalessin, eldest and greatest of dragons, and I remember the faces of the Masters of Roke when we arrived. They knew, then, as I knew, that I would take the throne. And before that, the other dragon - the golden one, Orm Embar - called me..._agni Lebannen_. Lebannen, the king. As if they knew all along..."   
Kell nodded, tightening his arms around the other's waist, understanding. "And you wish that a dragon would come from the west, and speak to the Lord of Paln as he did to you..._agni Lebannen..._"   
The young king turned a sad smile to his wizard. "Is that as arrogant as it sounds? That dragons should do my bidding..."   
Kell murmured something Arren did not catch, low under his breath, taking one hand from Arren's waist and making a strange, curving pass through the air.   
Turning, Arren found a perfect replica of Orm Embar, no longer than his forearm, stood upon the windowsill. He laughed in startled delight, stretching out his hand to run his fingers down the scaled back. The tiny dragon stretched his neck, spreading golden wings that shimmered in the sun, and spoke.   
"_Agni Lebannen._"   
Then it bowed its head, once, and vanished in a flare of sunlight. Amazed, Arren turned back to Kell, who shrugged apologetically.   
"An illusion, nothing more."   
"Nothing more?" Arren was incredulous. "It was beautiful, and perfect..." Running out of words, he reached out to touch Kell's cheek. "Thank you."   
Kell turned his head away. "It was less than nothing. Any sorcerer could have done the same." He turned a face full of sudden anguish on the older boy. "I'm supposed to be your _court wizard_! And what have I done since I came here? A few illusions, a misused Change spell...nothing of any importance." He almost choked on the unexpected lump in his throat. "I'm useless to you."   
Arren grabbed him firmly by both shoulders. "You're _anything_ but useless. Would another wizard have been able to give such sound advice in Council? Would another wizard have used a Change spell so selflessly, risking his life just to let me sleep a little easier?" He pulled Kell in close, till their faces were mere inches apart. "Would anyone else have spent last night with me like you did?" He looked at Kell seriously from a distance a little under an inch. "Heavens bless the Master Patterner for sending you to me."   
  
"I need a holiday."   
Kell looked up from the book he had been reading with a near-incredulous smile on his face. It was noon in the palace, and the Council had adjourned for lunch; the two of them were alone in the palace gardens, Arren idly trailing his hand in one of the fish pools as he munched an apple. Kell was sat up against the trunk of a huge, ancient oak tree reading a book - or he had been, until Arren's sudden declaration.   
"A holiday? But you're the _king_ - you can't just lock up and leave the key under a stone in the front porch."   
By way of answer, Arren threw his apple core at the wizard. It never reached its intended target - Kell flung out a hand, fingers spread, and the core stopped in mid-air.   
Grinning, Arren adopted a mock-chiding tone. "Isn't that a misuse of your powers?"   
Kell considered this for a moment. "No. But this probably is." With a flick of his fingers he sent the apple core flying back the other way, pinwheeling through the air until it bounced off the king's nose.   
The incensed boy jumped on him, and there followed a brief, energetic wrestling match that ended with the two of them laid on the cool grass under the tree, trying to get their breath back.   
"I wasn't joking, you know," Arren managed eventually. "I need a holiday."   
Kell rolled over to face him, propping his chin on one hand. "But who will rule while you're away?"   
Arren lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up through the tree branches at the cloudless azure sky. "The Long Dance takes place in a week - people will be too busy preparing for it to be bothered with anything the king says. I can leave Prince Sege to deal with anything that happens while we're away."   
There was just enough emphasis on the word for Kell to notice. "We're?"   
Arren raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course, _we're_. Did you think I'd go alone?"   
Kell blushed. "Won't you be taking...oh, I don't know, a retinue or something? Servants, bodyguards..."   
Arren made a face and waved a hand dismissively. "Sycophants and hangers-on...no thanks." He reached forward and caught Kell's face between his hands, smiling as the wizard instinctively leaned into the touch. "Why would I need them, when," he brushed Kell's blonde hair back from his face, "I have you?"   
Kell coloured an even deeper shade of pink. "Where would we go?"   
Arren sat back, crossing one leg underneath him. "Nowhere on Havnor. I want to get away, even if it's only for a little while. We can't go too far, either - we must be back for the Long Dance. I was thinking..." He cast a sideways glance at Kell, gauging the other's reaction. "...Ilien?"   
The unspoken question was answered as Kell's eyes lit up. "Truly? We could go to Ilien?"   
Delighted by the response, Arren chuckled and reached out to touch Kell's arm. "Would you like to?"   
"I would love to."   
  
  
"See there - the Hunter and his Quarry." Kell's pointing finger picked out the stars as he named them. "Over there, the Mother," a twinkling yellow star, "the Maiden," a much brighter, much smaller blue-white point of light, "and the Crone," a sullen red cinder burning in the sky. "Up there..." He trailed off as he realised his audience was no longer paying attention.   
The two boys had all but eloped from the Palace, mentioning their departure to none save Prince Sege and Eilel, the kindly lady who had first shown Kell around the Palace and who was a good friend of the king's. Then they had slipped away before the Council could be roused and Arren coerced into staying - or worse, into making the holiday a formal Royal Excursion. Pausing only to stock a small but sturdy sailboat with sufficient food, water and clothing, they had rowed out of Havnor Great Port at first light and hoisted sail.   
Now the two lay together in the bottom of the boat, covered by a thick woollen blanket. The boat was prevented from drifting by both a holding spell and a sea anchor, a long tapered tube of waxed leather designed to create sufficient drag to keep the boat in place. Kell had also crafted an illusion, sustainable even while he slept - to the casual eye, they would look like nothing more than a patch of open sea.   
The sky was clear, and until a few moments ago they had been watching the stars come out one by one. Then Kell, feeling Arren's eyes upon him, had ceased his naming and turned to face the dark-haired boy.   
  
For a long time neither of them spoke. Kell was captivated by his companion's eyes, the silver stars reflected in their sable depths. Arren was savouring the moment - the simple intimacy that came with such closeness, the comforting presence of another lying less than a hand's breadth away.   
Then a cool gust of wind blew over them, waking them from their mutual contemplation. Arren pulled the blanket up around his bare shoulders and shivered.   
"How much further must we go?" He smiled. "Not that I would have this journey end any sooner than it must, but if we are to spend much time on Ilien, we ought to reach it soon."   
Kell stretched out a hand to touch Arren's cheek. "With you near I could summon the magewind even in a dead calm. We are already more than halfway there - we should arrive late tomorrow."   
Arren brought his hand up to touch Kell's elbow, then used the contact to pull them closer together until he could feel the wizard's warm breath on his face. "Until tomorrow, then. Good night."   
Tentatively, Kell inched forward until he could place a soft kiss on Arren's cheek; he was reassured by warm arms encircling him. "Good night."   
They fell asleep quickly, lulled by the gentle motion of the waves and the simple comfort of being in another's arms.   
Arren shook his head, sending his hair streaming out before him in the wind. Kell's sudden ability to call the magewind was nothing short of miraculous - though he would take none of the credit. When Arren had complimented him he smiled, shook his head and said,   
"Without you, I could never raise the magewind; now the sail never hangs slack. Your presence alone is the reason - my heart flies like an eagle, and the magewind lifts its wings." Then, realising what he had said, he ducked his head in embarrassment and refused to look up until Arren hugged him and kissed him soundly.   
Whatever the reason, with the magewind in her sail the boat was fairly flying, her bow cutting through the water so fast that it kicked up spray every time it met a wave. Arren tasted salt and felt cool water on his face; turning, he smiled at Kell, who was stood in the stern with his arms outstretched. The wizard grinned back, almost laughing, caught up in the sheer exhilaration of the boat's flight.   
Before them, rising like an emerald from the blue-green waters, the isle of Ilien shimmered in the sunlight.   
  
They arrived, as Kell had predicted, early in the evening; together they hauled the boat up above the waterline of a secluded beach, then promptly stripped and threw themselves into the sea. The breakers, still warm from the day's sun, cascaded over their bodies as they laughed and splashed in the shallow water. Then Arren struck out for deeper water, swimming strongly and easily, his supple body glowing in the evening light. Kell followed him, slipping through the water like a fish, his slender form knifing through the waves.   
When he judged they were far enough out, Arren trod water, holding out his arms to the wizard. Kell swam into his embrace and they kissed, each tasting salt on the other's lips. For a while the only sound was the roaring of wave upon shore; then the two broke apart and Kell playfully ducked Arren, who surfaced in a flurry of bubbles and a burst of laughter.   
After a short battle for supremacy (won by Kell, the quicker and more agile of the two), Kell turned out to sea and spoke aloud in the Old Speech, calling to the _essaliel_, the foamriders.   
A few moments passed; then Arren saw something fishlike break the surface, away to his left, before disappearing beneath the waves once again. Kell smiled and called again - _'essaliel, essaliel'_ - and suddenly the water around them was full of dolphins.   
Arren laughed delightedly as the playful creatures swarmed around him, nudging him with inquisitive snouts and singing their high-pitched song. He reached out to stroke the back of one - its skin was smooth and cool beneath his fingers. It whickered at him in amusement, tossing its head and studying him from the corner of one intelligent black eye.   
"I think she likes you." Kell was at his elbow, no longer treading water but now with one arm astride the body of another dolphin; he slid the other arm around Arren's waist, his fingers spread across the sculpted muscle of the boy's stomach.   
"That one certainly likes _you_," Arren retorted, grinning and nodding towards Kell's companion. Kell grinned back, pulling the other boy closer and pressing a kiss on Arren's lips.   
Then he dived, long legs kicking gracefully as he propelled himself down underwater. Arren took a deep breath and followed, the pressure making his ears ring as he fought for depth. Dolphins shot past them, their powerful tails and streamlined shape letting them glide through the water as easily as birds flying in the skies. They struck out and down, reaching for the sea bed; Kell touched it first, with Arren following only seconds behind. The water was clear and blue, refreshingly cool as the two kicked off and swam back up towards the air.   
  
Two heads broke surface simultaneously, heralding loud gasps for breath. Arren tossed his head, flicking trails of wet hair out of his eyes. Water streamed down his face, the salt stinging his eyes and parching his tongue. For a moment he was blinded, coughing and spluttering, blinking furiously to try and clear his eyes.   
When his vision cleared, he was met by a black eye with a twinkle of amusement in its depths. Then the dolphin rolled and dived underneath him, circling his body and nudging at him with its nose. He laughed and fended it off, careful not to hurt it as he kicked over towards where Kell was treading water.   
The wizard gave him a smile that was quickly replaced by a shiver. "It's getting a little cold, you know."   
Arren nodded in agreement. A cold breeze had sprung up from the west, chilling their wet bodies and rapidly cooling the sea. "We should head for shore."   
They swam side by side, never more than a metre apart, chuckling as the lively dolphins raced past and around them, circling and leaping. The waves carried the two tired boys to shore, depositing them gently on the cool sand.   
Kell turned and released the dolphins with a word; Arren joined him in bidding them farewell as the sleek creatures swam away, speeding across the waves.   
  
They dressed in companionable silence, rubbing themselves down before pulling clothes over still-damp skin and hair. Arren went hunting for firewood - not a difficult task on such a driftwood-strewn beach - while Kell unpacked what they needed from the boat. By the time he returned, a cheerful fire was burning in a ring of stones.   
Their supper, a simple affair of lamb and vegetables, cooked quickly over the fire, and they ate it as only young healthy boys can - quickly and appreciatively. Then they sat back, letting the fire gently warm them as they talked softly about nothing in particular.   
Gradually, as the sun sank in the west and the fire burned ever lower, the talk faltered, then fell away. Shy glances became gentle touches. Kell rested his head on Arren's shoulder; Arren stroked his hair tenderly. Kell pressed his face into Arren's neck; Arren lay down, sliding his hands either side of the wizard's face and pulling him down for a long kiss.   
In the waning light the contrast was striking - Arren's dark hair and golden skin against Kell's lighter tone and shock of blonde hair. Anyone watching would have sworn they saw a scene from _The Deed of Enlad_, that tale of the love of Morred and Elfarran the Fair.   
And there on the beaches of Ilien, as the stars came out above them one by one, Lebannen the Young King gently and tenderly took his first lover.   
  
  
Kell awoke first the next morning, slipping quietly out from under the blanket that had kept them warm against the cool night air. Now it was sprinkled with early morning dew - and so, Kell saw with amusement, was Arren's hair.   
He leant down and smoothed the moisture away, careful not to wake his lover. The sky was clear, the morning peaceful; the liquid tones of skylark song and the quiet murmur of wave on sand were the only sounds to disturb the silence as he knelt beside Arren.   
Rising, he arched his back, easing out the stiffness there - and smiling at the memory of how it had come about. He pushed his wayward hair back out of his eyes -   
- and stiffened again as something on the horizon caught his eye. The sun was well up into the sky, but away below it and to the north there was a great roiling mass of cloud, with lightning flashing deep within.   
_North and west - Paln._   
It was no coincidence that the storm had blown up from that direction, nor that it hung there sullenly, menacing the whole Archipelagan sky. Something was afoot.   
Kell walked a little way from where Arren lay and closed his eyes, stretching out his hands in front of him, sending his mind out across the waters to where Paln lay under its veil of cloud. After a few seconds' casting about, he found the source of the power which was causing such a storm.   
Five figures, cloaked in black, stood around a fire, swaying and chanting in strange sibilant voices. The fire burned the angry red of banefire, with a black heart that shifted and coiled like some foul serpent seeking to strike. Clouds boiled around the scene, obscuring it briefly before parting again. Kell's stomach churned and his head spun - the sheer power and malevolence of the five beat at him like a great dark wave, threatening to overwhelm him and drag him under.   
Then something happened; the timbre of the chant altered somehow, and one of the five cowled figures turned towards him, questing at the air. He strained to catch a glimpse of the face inside the hood, but could see nothing aside from a pair of dark eyes, glinting in the firelight -   
Too late he realised his mistake, as those eyes fixed on him and a shrill cry of triumph went up. The figure brought its hands around and began making passes through the air; Kell could feel the power coalesce as the other four followed suit. He tried desperately to shield himself, but with five of them working against him and half his concentration going on the farsight spell, he stood no chance.   
The blast came from nowhere - the dark-eyed one simply opened his hands and sent a burst of sheer power straight at Kell. The wizard cried out and instinctively threw up his arms to shield his face -   
  
- and woke up with Arren kneeling over him, his face full of concern, gentle hands stroking strands of sweat-drenched blonde hair out of his eyes.   
"What happened? I was woken by a clap of thunder and you were laid unconscious on the ground - are you all right?"   
Kell wasn't listening. He could think of only one thing - the cry of triumph that had gone up only a moment before he had blacked out.   
_'Ilien! We have them!' _  
With difficulty he persuaded his eyes to focus on Arren's face. The other boy must have seen the fear in his eyes - he fell silent instantly, cradling the wizard's head delicately with one hand while the other brushed his forehead.   
"What is it?"   
Kell swallowed, forcing the words past the growing lump of terror in his throat.   
_"They are coming."_


	4. Capture

Arren helped Kell quickly to his feet, supporting him as his legs threatened to collapse again. "Who? Who are coming?"   
"No time." Kell was already stumbling towards the boat. "We have to go, _now._"   
Arren caught up with him, still trying to understand. "_Why?_ What is happening?"   
Kell shoved him away angrily, throwing out his hand and crying a word aloud; the boat shot down the beach, carving a furrow in the sand before hitting the water with a splash. He threw himself in, landing clumsily and rolling as Arren dived after him.   
The king quickly stepped the mast, still uncomprehending. "What are we running from?"   
Kell's voice was tight, his face set in a mask of concentration. "Black mages. Five black mages, from Paln. They know you're here, and they're already coming for you. We must get away from here."   
Seconds later, he threw up his hands with a curse. "I can't call the magewind."   
"Then we'll use the world's wind," Arren replied shortly, already hoisting the sail. "We'll have to tack against it if we're going to get to Havnor in time."   
Kell stared at him as if he'd gone insane. "Havnor? Why would we want to go to Havnor?"   
He was met by equal incomprehension. "Why? It's the safest place!"   
The wizard shook his head vehemently. "We go to Roke. The Masters must be warned."   
The king folded his arms stubbornly. "I have to lead my people. The Masters can come to Havnor."   
"There's no TIME!" Kell almost screamed. "The dark ones are coming already, and with five of them working the magewind they'll travel ten times faster than we will. We sail for Roke, and we sail _now._"   
For a long second there was silence, the tension singing in the air between them. Then Arren nodded, and the race was on.   
  
They fled west and south, running before the wind as fast as the boat would carry them. The sail bulged, the prow kicked up spray as they worked feverishly to get as much speed as they could.   
Neither one voiced the thought in both their minds. _We'll never make it in time..._   
For hours they worked, throwing overboard everything needless, taking turns at the tiller. Several times Kell tried to summon the magewind, but never managed above a breath that was quickly lost in the squalling worldly wind. Arren's hands were raw and blistering from pulling ropes, and he cursed himself - before Havnor, when he had been just a prince on Enlad, he had sailed almost every day, and he would have been able to keep this up for hours. Now Palace life had made him soft.   
  
As the hours wore on, the sky began to darken noticeably. Rain fell, quickly soaking both of them to the skin. Arren began to worry as Kell grew more and more withdrawn, seemingly uncaring about his dripping clothes; the wizard sat in the stern, staff across his knees, face locked in an expression of intense concentration. For long minutes he didn't move, seeming barely to breathe, until finally he cast his staff aside angrily.   
"I can't do it!"   
Arren was beside him in a moment, hands already stroking his hair, soothing. "What can't you do?"   
Kell put his head in his hands, almost crying with rage and frustration. "They're too strong! I'm trying to shield us, make us invisible, but there are five of them and only one of me!" He buried his head in Arren's chest, hot tears of shame mingling with the frigid raindrops. "What am I supposed to do?"   
Arren held him then, held him close and tender. Kell's skin burned under his fingers as though with a fever, but the muscles beneath were slack and powerless; the tears would not stop, and fell and fell until at last the king lifted the wizard's head and kissed them away with gentle lips.   
"Do what you can. Do only what you can."   
With those words he rose, going forward again to stand in the bows and watch the waves carry them onward; he willed the boat to move faster, though she was already flying past the shores of Kamery, far away to his left. To his right the sun was already sinking towards the sea, casting its sullen red light over the dark clouds, making them appear suffused with blood.   
  
The storm came upon them quickly, blowing in from the northwest far faster than any natural storm could move. Pitch-black thunderclouds darkened the sky from horizon to horizon; the rain worsened to huge drops that stung exposed skin with all the ferocity of hailstones. Then came the wind, great gusting squalls that struck without warning, threatening to capsize the boat. Despite the ever-present, ever-increasing danger, Kell knew there was no point in trying to sail onwards in such conditions. Even if his weatherworking talent had been stronger, this was a mage-called storm, not easily sent aside.   
Eventually there was nothing for it but to unstep the mast and take down the sail. Between them they stretched the canvas over one corner of the boat and huddled beneath it, barely protected from the stinging, drenching rain, hoarding what little warmth they could. The contact should have been reassuring, but neither drew much comfort from it - they shared instead an intense feeling of peril from which there was no relief.   
  
What seemed like hours later, the rain began to abate slightly. By now the sailcloth was saturated and the bottom of the boat was inches deep in bilgewater. Both king and wizard were soaking and miserable, their spirits sapped by the wretched weather; there seemed little hope of reaching Roke now, with wind and sea driving them south and east instead of west. Arren shot a glance at Kell, but his hope faltered and the words died unspoken on his lips - the wizard looked in no state to call the magewind now. His thick blonde hair was plastered lifelessly to his head, water running down his face; he looked listless, almost trancelike, and remained that way until Arren became worried enough to wave a hand before his eyes.   
Kell started visibly, then slowly focused on Arren's face. "They are seeking us again; it's everything I can do just to keep us hidden. If they find us then we're lost; there's no way I can stand against five of them."  
Arren half-drew his sword, the well-oiled blade gleaming in the eerie half-light. "We'll fight them if we have to."  
Kell looked at him with a mixture of fierce love and mockery. "Swords are no good against them, even one as strong as that. They could strike us down without ever touching us."   
Pulling his sword free of its sheath, Arren stood - though he almost lost his footing on the shifting deck - and shouted his defiance to the uncaring sky. "Then let them come!"  
Even as the rim of the sun's red circle touched the horizon, they came.   
  
Their only warning was a moment of breathless silence, when everything around them seemed to fall still. Then a great blast of wind struck, tearing Arren's feet from the deck and casting him head-first into the sea, leaving his sword to clatter harmlessly on the deck. Kell clung desperately to the mainsail rope as the boat heeled dangerously, threatening to overturn at any moment. Arren was gripping the rim of the boat in both hands, grimly refusing to let the raging waters carry him away. That, too, was terrifying - only moments before the sea had been relatively calm. Now it seethed, dark and cold, promising a swift, freezing death to any who were separated from their vessel.   
Seeing Arren in danger, Kell felt anger boil up inside him. He shouted at the storm, flinging a spell into the teeth of the wind, meeting power with power.   
Abruptly, the wind dropped, leaving the two of them to right themselves and their boat - just in time for the second assault. Lightning speared the clouds, slicing the sky in half; bare seconds later, thunder like a thousand firecrackers exploded over the waters, leaving the two boys deafened and blinded in the aftermath. Instinctively, they reached for their weapons - Kell's fingers curled around his staff, while Arren's groping hand found his sword-hilt. Then cold fingers found dripping ones, and forged a link stronger than that mere touch could convey - squeezing gently, sharing reassurance and strength.   
Kell's arm shot into the air, raising his staff high above his head - with a single word, cried into the teeth of the storm, it flared up with incandescent magelight. Arren flung back his head and shouted aloud, his defiance ringing across the waves as his sword blazed with reflected glory.   
And into their circle of calm, into the eye of the storm, rode a ship with sails black as night and a bow that cut the water in total silence. No oars moved it nor rudder steered it. Five figures stood in the bows, cowled and robed in black, a great cloud of darkness about them. Kell's every sense screamed at him, a great weight of dread fell upon his mind - seeking instantly to combat it, he flung out his staff and yelled a word of power.   
The mages barely swayed; one lifted his hand, then simply gestured as if brushing aside a fly, and Kell was flung from the boat and into the freezing ocean.   
  
As the water closed over his head, Kell kept a desperate grip on his staff, its silver radiance dimming slowly. The sea seemed to draw him down, away from the fear and danger, away from the feelings of worthlessness and impotence...   
...away from Arren...   
_No!_ With a word, torn from his lips in a rush of air, Kell struck back against the lulling song of the enchanted sea. His staff burned again, the magefire brighter than before. Its buoyancy was suddenly far greater than a normal length of wood - it drew him up, up through the silver-dappled waters until his head broke surface.   
The boat's gunwale was right above his head; he grabbed hold of it and heaved himself half out of the water. Then his head crested the side, and his eyes took in the scene before him.   
Arren was down on one knee, his sword held before his face, which bore an expression of intense strain. The leading wizard was stood over him, one hand reaching down, the fingers curled like claws. His power beat at Arren, forcing the king down, down till his knees gave way and he fell on his side in the bilgewater, his sword dropping from lifeless fingers.   
Kell screamed aloud, a long wail of fury and anguish, and tried desperately to heave himself over the side of the boat. However, his staff impeded him, and before he could reach his lover the black mage was already whirling toward him.   
Then his enemy's staff came down hard across his head, and Kell knew no more.   
  
Arren gasped as he felt his lover's hand torn from his grasp, but there was no time to go to his aid. Even as Kell hit the water, the lead black mage leaped down from the high prow of his ship, landing in their boat as easily as a cat. Indeed, there was no jolt as he landed - it was as if he weighed nothing at all.   
A single shaft of sunlight broke the clouds, gleaming for a moment off Arren's upraised sword; then that sword came down, pointing straight at the black-robed man as he hefted his staff and came at Arren full pelt. Arren dodged, struggling to find a footing on the slick, shifting planks underfoot; seeing an opening, the mage howled in triumph and brought his staff around double-handed, threatening to knock Arren off his feet.   
The king danced back, confident now that he had the feel of the surface. This was his element - swordfighting had been one of his favourite pastimes in his father's palace on Enlad, and he had spent many hours training with the weaponsmaster. He knew the heft and length of the sword in his hand as well as he knew his own body, and few could equal his skill.   
The sword of Serriadh sang through the air as he whirled, avoiding the mage's too-slow swing - and he saw in that moment _his_ opening. The staff's length was an advantage, for it gave the mage a longer reach than Arren's sword did him, but it was also a hindrance - a swing took a long time to recover from.   
Arren leapt back as the mage brought the staff back around for another swing, then pretended to stumble, letting his left leg fold beneath him. His opponent swung, the heavy length of wood whistling through the air, but Arren ducked and it passed harmlessly over his head. _Then_ he pushed off from his left foot, that he had kept pressed flat against the deck; his sword shot forward, aimed straight at his enemy's heart.   
At the last second the mage twisted away; instead of plunging into his chest, the point of the enchanted blade sliced through his robe and scored a deep gash through his skin. Arren heard the gasp of indrawn breath; then, even as he recovered himself, the mage shrieked, a horrible sound that beat in his ears and numbed his singing muscles into stillness. He staggered backward, unable to gain his balance, until his legs finally gave way and he sank to one knee.   
The mage towered over him, one hand outstretched. Alien syllables hissed and bubbled on his lips; with horror, Arren realised that his strength was draining out of him. He could barely move; it was all he could do simply to keep from falling on his face.   
Then, half-forgotten in his hand, the sword began to glimmer with the barest hint of light. It gave him an answering glimmer of hope; slowly, so slowly, he brought it up, till it was crooked before his face. The mage's dark eyes widened; he swore, then raised his staff and dashed the sword from Arren's hand.   
Or tried to. As the staff struck the sword it stopped instantly, as if it had struck a wall; Arren felt no blow on the sword blade, but the staff was almost torn from his opponent's grasp. White light flared out from the sword, blinding Arren for a moment and leaving painful violet after-images on the back of his eyes. When he recovered, it was to see the mage staring at the sword as if at a hated enemy.   
"So," he spat, his voice sibilant and menacing, "the puppet king carries a master's sword. Were you a true king, child, then you would have killed me with that blow. But Serriadh is long dead, and you are not he."   
With those words he stretched out his hand again, the fingers curled stiffly, and spoke a string of syllables that forced Arren down. His muscles would not obey him; there was no strength left in him. He had not the words nor the power to stop the spell - all his fencing talent would not avail him against such magic.   
Slowly, slowly, he crumpled to the deck and fell, the sword clattering harmlessly onto the deck. As darkness veiled his eyes, the last thing Arren saw was Kell's face, the mouth open in a great cry of horror, and the mage's long dark staff already swinging towards his lover's unprotected head.   
  
  
There was darkness. For a long time, there was only darkness, deep and absolute.   
Then came the pain. It crippled him, stopped his thoughts. Shards of red-hot ice stabbed his temples, sliced behind his eyes. Fragments of spells, charms to ease the pain, floated up through his aching brain, but his mouth was stopped and he could not speak a word.   
Then the darkness came again, and he surrendered to it gratefully.   
  
There was light. A smoky yellow candle, guttering in the corner of the room. By the motion of the wall to which he was bound he knew he was aboard the ship, or at least _a_ ship. His arms were tied to an iron ring above his head, his feet lashed together and the rope tied tightly around his thighs. The gag in his mouth was rough and dirty; he tried not to think about the taste.   
It did him no good. His stomach churned from the seawater he had swallowed; he retched violently, almost choking on the unyielding gag. The smoke from the candle filled his lungs as he fought for air, still retching and trying to cough.   
Eventually he stilled his aching stomach, though his throat burned from the acid and the salt. His head still hurt unbearably, and the darkness gave no sign of returning to give him relief.   
Soft laughter filled the room. Straining his eyes in the dim light, he made out a young man, sitting comfortably against the opposite wall. His dark eyes were pleasant, his long hair straight and sleek, his face open and smiling; only the black cloak around his shoulders told the true story.   
"No words of power now, wizard? No spells? No Roke-taught charms to send the dark ones away?" He laughed again, then, such a pleasant sound from such a mocking mouth. "Roke-taught, rote-learnt, they have failed you at the last, wizard."   
Kell could say nothing, could not even move, but if he could have he would have hung his head in shame. The dark one was right - he _had_ failed. He was useless; if only Roke had sent someone stronger!   
Seeing the look in his eyes, the dark mage laughed again. "At least you know it. That bastard _king_," he spat the word, "keeps fighting. I hope we won't have to kill him. You wouldn't like that, would you?" His face twisted again, more violently this time. "_Ewes don't like seeing their ram killed, do they?_"   
Kell glared at him, hating him with every fibre of his being, screaming at him with every ounce of will _go away! Leave me alone!_, but it was no use. He could not speak a word, could summon no power. The mage smirked at him from the floor.   
"No matter. Havnor will be a headless chicken without its figurehead, and Roke can't rule without its puppet. Then Paln will take what is rightfully ours."   
Rising, he paced the few metres of deck to where Kell was tied, then leant down and tilted the wizard's head up. "Such pretty green eyes you have, wizard, and such fair hair. Just like your beloved Master Patterner." Then he struck Kell hard across the cheek, so hard that he saw stars and almost blacked out. "We'll see if he takes longer to die than you."   
  
Arren woke to feel cold raindrops falling on his face, the chill water soaking his hair and clothes. It felt as if he had not been warm in days, nor dry. His muscles ached, especially his sword-arm. His arms were bound behind his back; his sword was out of reach in its scabbard, still hanging from his belt.   
Keeping his eyes closed, he listened hard, trying to learn as much as possible about his surroundings before revealing the fact that he was conscious. The rhythmic _slap-slap-slap_ of waves on wood told him that he was on the black mages' ship. There were voices not far away, arguing. He strained to catch them.   
"Can't you send it away?" Soft, persuasive, but with an underlying edge of steel, this was a dangerous voice. The sibilance told him it was the leader; that and the cold malevolence that pervaded every word.   
"I _like_ it." _This_ voice was lighter, almost dreamy; slightly petulant at being questioned. "Why shouldn't I make it rain?"   
"_Darfo,_" swore the leader, his patience breaking, "can't you see - " He broke off, and there was the sound of footsteps coming closer to where Arren lay. "He's awake."   
Arren groaned as though just waking up; he fluttered his eyelids before opening them, trying to maintain the pretence. "What..."   
"What happened?" the dreamy voice giggled, almost hysterically. "We caught you, your majesty. Caught you like a rat in a trap."   
As his eyes cleared, Arren could see the speaker for the first time. Robed in black like the others, his hood was thrown back; his face was pale as if leached of all colour, his hair the same bleached-white. His eyes were grey, and as they flickered over Arren the king realised with a start that he was blind.   
"Like a rat," the blind man repeated, his voice ending on another high-pitched giggle. The leader, a tall man with unfathomable dark eyes, grimaced in annoyance.   
Summoning his strength and all his courtly arrogance, Arren fixed the chief mage with an imperious stare. "What am I doing here?"   
The man laughed, a long hiss of malign amusement. "Like the stormbringer says, we caught you. On a pleasure cruise with your lover, no less." He smiled, and Arren shivered; it was a cold, cruel smile. "I wonder what Azver would say if he knew you were rutting with his chosen wizard, hm?"   
Despite himself, Arren found his cheeks colouring. Even thinking of Kell was painful - he had failed to protect the wizard against the danger into which he himself had put them. "Is he alive?"   
"The wizard?" The mage tossed his head dismissively. "For now. He lives or dies by my word, boy. Co-operate, and I shall let him live. Fight me," he leaned closer, "and I shall bring him to you. In pieces."   
  
  
Hot tears stung his eyes, though he had sworn to himself he would not cry. They spilled over, tracing wet paths through the salt that still crusted his skin.   
He had been so _stupid!_ So useless! He had failed the Master Patterner, and the king; neither would ever forgive him. He should have protected Arren; instead, he had been laid low by a single blow.   
_Fool!_   
He closed his eyes against the tears, though they burned. Desperately, he writhed against his bonds till his fingers were wet with sweat or blood - but to no avail. There was nothing, _nothing_ he could do. He was truly useless.   
_Nothing?_ There was something he had forgotten; he could feel it slipping through his mind, but when he reached for it it slid away. A spell? What use would that be, when he could speak no word and make no movement?   
But what spells required no word or gesture? There were few - a healing spell, but he was no healer, and what use would it be?; a simple mending charm; nothing of any importance.   
Except...   
  
_No..._   
Arren went cold inside; the sleety rain was warm against his skin by comparison. The mage's threat brought a chill to his stomach, a shiver to his heart. In his mind's eye he saw Kell, tightly bound, a knife pressed against his throat, defenceless. Hot red blood running into the cold sea, shed because he had not fought well enough. His lover's green eyes dimming, the life fading behind them, and _all because of him..._   
"NO!" He cried the word aloud, so loud that the blind weatherworker started backwards, stumbled and fell hard to the deck. The leader spun round, his dark eyes flaring; he hefted his staff and brought it down, aimed at Arren's head. At the last moment the boy arched his body, gaining enough purchase with his bound knees to twist his head out from under the blow.   
The mage swore, spat in the king's hair and smashed his boot against Arren's temple with a horrible wet sound; Arren was sure his skull had broken. As darkness welled up behind his eyes, his last thought was of his lover, of that night on the beach, of the sweet touch of Kell's fingers and the gentle whisper of his voice...   
  
Praying that it would work, Kell closed his eyes and sent out tendrils of power in all directions. He could _feel_ the shape of the sea around him, could _see_ the land where it rose from the waves. There was the land of Hosk, still some distance to the west; to the east, Ilien was giving way to Ark. They were racing north, no doubt making for the strait between Hosk and Havnor that would take them back to Paln.   
So. Now he knew where they were. Now for the more difficult task.   
Straining until sweat stood out on his brow, Kell extended his awareness outward, seeking now not for familiar islands but for a familiar place, and for a person who never left that place. He formed an image of the Master Patterner inside his mind; soft green eyes, hair as yellow as butter, a tall man with mercy and gentleness in his eyes; and he wove into that image the _feeling_ of the man, the kindness he had shown, the quiet praise he had given and the air of silent wisdom that surrounded him.   
So woven, he sent the image out, questing across the waters for the man who fitted it -   
- and found another. Arren's cry shook him, dragging the fledgling link from his grasp; in that instant, it fixed on _Arren_, drawing on _his_ love, _his_ warmth, _his_ gentleness. Kell's eyes stung with tears as he saw the true extent of Arren's feelings for him; instinctively, he poured unceasing love back across the link. Then Arren cried out again, this time in physical rather than emotional pain, and Kell felt his presence fade. The wizard was suddenly terrified that Arren was dying; he reached out, stretching mental fingers to stroke Arren's forehead, caress his hair, reassure himself that his lover was still alive. He murmured gentle words in Arren's ear, though he knew the boy could not hear them, gently easing Arren down into unconsciousness and away from the searing pain in his temple.   
Suddenly the link broke, severed by Arren's fall into oblivion. Hastily Kell reformed his Patterner-image, sending it with all his strength across the waves to Roke, his heart aching for Arren even as he did so.   
The door burst open; he barely noticed. The link had been caught, and held. Cool wind caressed his hair; all he saw was the green-dappled sunlight shining down through the slender branches of the Immanent Grove. Before him stood the tall form of the Master Patterner, the sun shimmering off his spun-gold hair. Intense concern was in his green eyes; he reached out a hand to Kell and mouthed the words that he could not hear, _where are you? What has happened?_   
In a great burst, Kell sent everything he knew - what had happened, who their enemies were, where they were and where they were heading. Over and around and through curled thoughts that he could not hide; his fear for himself and for Arren, his feelings of worthlessness, and that great surge of love he had felt when they had linked for that brief moment.   
He hung his head in shame, but the Patterner smiled, despite the concern in his eyes. Again the soundless words - _I shall come at once_ -   
- and then the link was torn asunder with such force that Kell screamed against his gag. Before him stood not the Master Patterner, but his shadow - the tall, midnight-cloaked figure of the head mage, his face twisted in anger.   
As the blows began to fall, Kell clung grimly to this, his last shred of hope.   
_They are coming..._


	5. Despair

The darkness cradled him, held him in its bosom, protected him. Pain was just a breath away, a hulking monster ready to sink its claws into his head and rend his body; the darkness kept it at bay, and he clung desperately to unconsciousness.  
Then the song began - no more than a whisper at first, a thread of murmuring tune that swelled and grew little by little. It called to him, tugged at his senses, cajoling until at last he relented and opened his eyes.  
Or tried to. One eye opened, but the darkness barely yielded - all he could make out was the faintest glimmer. The other stayed stubbornly shut, some substance gluing his eyelids together. He tried to lift a hand to clear it away, but they were tied behind his back, even more tightly than before.  
Pain shot through him, sparks exploding in his eyes as the monster leapt and attacked him viciously. Spasms wracked his body, lighting fires along his arms and legs as more bruises made their presence known. He couldn't lift his head - the same stuff that kept his eye from opening seemed to have congealed on the floor, trapping strands of hair and sucking wetly at his temple as his weak muscles strained against it.  
A cool hand on his forehead, calming his shudders. "Ssh now. Try and lie still."  
He opened his mouth, trying to reply, but could manage nothing above a croak that failed to penetrate his gag. A rough cloth rasped its way across his cheek, trailing water behind it - water that stung so badly that he caught his breath. Fresh seawater. Was this another cruel torture?  
"Sorry," the voice murmured, true apology in the word. "It's all I have. At least it'll keep infection from those cuts."  
Realisation dawned cold over Kell - that metallic taste seeping through his gag was his own blood. He was lying in a pool of it; it clotted on his eyelashes and solidified in his hair. The salt water seared gashes on his cheek and forehead, and his lip tingled dully where it had split under a particularly vicious blow. One ankle was already swollen, one wrist afire with the hot ache of a sprain.  
He forced his other eye open at last, blinking away the coagulated blood and burning seawater. Focusing with difficulty, he made out a young woman kneeling less than a span away, a faint, bleached werelight glimmering off her brow and fingers as she sponged his cheek.  
Then he caught sight of the night-black cloak around her shoulders, and terror swept over him like a great wave.  
  
She sat back quickly, drawing her hands away as if his fear burned her. The werelight flickered, faded, then rallied, throwing the desolate expression on her face into sharp relief.  
"You needn't be afraid." Her voice was a thread in the darkness, barely audible. "I don't intend to hurt you."  
Suspicion must have shown in his eyes, because she sighed and pushed her cape off her shoulders. "I'm not really one of them, you know. Although my story might be a little...difficult to believe."  
Right now Kell wasn't about to believe anything said by anyone wearing a black cloak, but she had a captive audience. He wasn't going anywhere. She resoaked the rag and passed it over his cuts again, wincing in sympathy every time he grimaced.   
"I used to be a sorceress, you know. Not a very good one. I could do a little finding, a little weatherworking, a little healing - nothing special." Kell's lips curled wryly under his gag - she had named two of his weakest talents. "The one thing I _could_ do was sing, and weave magic in my songs; it was how I cast all my spells, right from the beginning. I would sing the words to myself, sometimes out loud, sometimes under my breath. The witch who taught me didn't know how to teach a spellsinger; she taught me all she knew, but it was never enough, and many of her spells didn't work when I tried to sing them. I worked out how to make some of them work - the words needed to be changed somehow, sung differently to how they were spoken, but most of them I couldn't do. So I went to Roke to learn that art." She looked at the surprise in Kell's face and smiled bleakly. "Oh, yes. I was young enough and stupid enough to think that if I sang well enough, they'd let me in. I thought I could charm the Doorkeeper just enough to get past him, and then, well, that would have been it. I wanted it so, so much; I wanted to be able to do with my voice what all the other witch-kids could do with just a flick of their fingers."  
  
She shook her head, dipping the cloth again and squeezing it out before mopping Kell's brow. "Well, it turned out that the Rule of Roke doesn't fall so easily. I made it to the door, just like anyone with a bit of talent to call their own, and the Doorkeeper came out to meet me. I expected him to be surprised, but he just stood there and asked me mildly what I wanted.  
So I started to sing. I wove a charm into the song, the most powerful one I knew, trying to sing him under my control and _make_ him let me in." She wrung the cloth between her hands, a wry expression on her face. "It didn't work. I tried everything I knew - I tried to make him sorry for me, make him like me, make myself invisible to him, but nothing happened. He just stood there, while my song washed over him like water over rocks and moved him not in the slightest.  
Then he lifted a finger, and I _had_ to stop singing. It was as if the notes just died on my lips. All the power went out of me, and I was left standing, staring, as he smiled at me.  
'Thank you,' he said gently, 'but you cannot enter here.'  
And that was that." Her voice rose; her hands twisted; her eyes stared at nothing. "Everything I ever wanted, just a few metres away, and I couldn't pass him. _I wasn't good enough_."  
Then she came back to herself, smiling sadly down at Kell, dropping the cloth back into the shallow bowl of seawater. "I walked away, away from what I wanted most in the world; I had just enough money left to pay for passage on a ship. I didn't care where to; I just had to get away from Roke.  
I ended up wandering the streets of O-tokne, singing to the passers by for a few coins to pay for food and shelter for the night. The innkeeper at the local tavern let me have a bed at first, and then when he noticed my talent he'd have me sing every night for his patrons. I learned to weave simple spells into my songs to keep the audience happy, encourage them to drink a little more or stay a little longer - just small things like that. Enough to make sure the innkeeper's pocket was full and the customers went away cheerful." Again the rueful smile. "Not quite the marbled halls of Roke, but it kept me alive."   
Then her expression grew cold, distant; she seemed to shrink, drawing into herself as she had done in response to Kell's fear. Her hands flickered, running one over the other as if she tried to wash the memory away. "Then, one night, _he_ came into the tavern, with his four lackeys behind him."  
_Four?_ Kell's mind was instantly afire with questions. _If there were five of them then, without her, what happened to the other?_  
  
Again the smile, no more than a brief, emotionless twist of the lips. "Oh yes, you heard me right. Five there were then, and five now. And yet not a face amongst us has changed, from that five to this."  
_How? How is that possible? She was with them before?...no, only her face..._  
  
**  
  
Arren tried to roll with the punches and the kicks, but the ropes that held him restricted his movement; what force his momentum could not absorb was left to his already-bruised body. His whole head ached from his rude awakening back to consciousness; his temple sent spikes of ice and fire through his brain. His nose was bleeding copiously, his left eye swelling; his shoulder-blade screamed with the force of the most recently-landed blow.  
He bit his lip to keep from crying out, refusing to give them that satisfaction; his mouth was already full of blood, so he could not tell whether or not he had bitten _through_ his lip.  
Then the dark mage's boot crashed into his chin, and he no longer had to wonder.  
Someone - it was impossible to tell who, since at least three people were administering this beating and they shifted positions constantly - landed a boot squarely in his groin, and he curled up around the screaming pain, vomiting over the surface of the deck.  
"Stop." It was that hateful voice, the leader's venomous, contemptuous hiss. "We don't want him permanently damaged; after all, we need him to give up his crown _willingly_, don't we?" There was a vicious chuckle at the end that left Arren in no doubt whatsoever; he would be given no choice, and once he had done so they would have no qualms about murdering him.  
Still, the one remaining part of his mind that was not drowning in an ocean of incandescent pain managed to assimilate this, the reason for his capture - _they want Havnor, they want my throne...  
And without magic, there is nothing I can do to stop them..._  
The blind stormcaller knelt down by his head, deftly avoiding the spreading pool of vomit and blood on the deck, and spread his fingers above Arren's head; the king looked up, his heart rising into his mouth as he saw sparks crackling between the wizard's fingers.  
"Say the word," the wizard giggled, "and I can have the lightning strike him...just say the word, my friend..." He sounded almost imploring, like a child begging to be allowed on an outing - except for that strange half-mad laugh.  
"No." The leader's tone was final. "We do not want him dead - at least," he spat on Arren's face, his spittle cold on burning skin, "not _yet_." Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving the king lying there on the deck, blood trickling slowly across the rough wooden planks.  
  
**  
  
"I don't know why he was there, nor the others, but there they were. And they looked rich - if I made them happy, if they paid well, it might be my keep for a month and some over. So I sang to them; I sang the best I could, the best I had since the Doorkeeper. I wove my best charms, my finest enchantment into that song; I painted pictures, told great stories." For a moment a fierce pride shone on her face, transfiguring her pinched, lifeless features. "I had that room in the palm of my hand. No-one moved, or spoke; I could have held them there forever."  
Then the light in her face faded, replaced by anger; he saw the muscles tense beneath the skin of her arms.  
Kell could see the scene in his mind's eye as she described it - the songbird stepping from her perch, making for that table, intending to give them the full benefit of her voice. That voice dying on her lips as the leader whirled and flung out his hand, icy fingers of power meeting in her throat, choking off her enchanted song.  
She was weeping, quiet tears falling into her lap, and he sensed that this sadness was but an echo of some other unceasing sorrow, that held her every day of her life.  
"I was so afraid; I thought he was angry with me for trying to enchant him. His lackeys looked murderous enough, but he just laughed, low and long. I couldn't move; neither, from the looks of it, could anyone else in the room - his power had taken over from mine, holding them still.  
Then he rose, and came to me, and cupped my cheek in his hand. I wanted to scream; the power I felt there was evil through and through, like a freshly-bloodied blade. He tilted my chin up, examining me, like holding a glass of wine up to the light. I _couldn't_ pull away, though I tried and tried.  
He turned to his men and beckoned them around him - and I saw they weren't all men, after all. In the depths of one of those great black hoods was a woman's face, bronze-skinned, framed with dark hair. I wondered what she was doing with a company like them - she looked so slender, so delicate, as if she'd blow away in the wind."  
Kell looked at her, at her dark hair and bronze skin, her fragile, bird-boned frame, and a dreadful suspicion began to dawn in his mind.  
If she noticed, she ignored it. "He laughed again," she went on, "and I shuddered to hear it. He called me a pretty little song thrush, and asked me what I was doing so far from my nest. I couldn't speak, of course, and that just made him laugh the more.  
She drew a sharp breath, as if in sudden pain; Kell suddenly saw, ghostly and indistinct around her, thin grey lines that tightened and bit into her flesh, and he knew them for what they were - coercions, spells laid - no doubt by the mage leader - to prevent her from helping him, or from telling him too much. The oblique way she had approached the subject of her capture had saved her a lot of pain - had she attempted to tell him outright it would be much worse, but they were constricting now, and it might not be long before she could not continue.  
She drew a breath, carefully, and continued. "Then he said, 'We can _use_ you', like a man deciding to buy - or steal - a tool. They threw a hood over my head and someone hit me, and that was all I knew for a long, long time."  
  
She let out the rest of her breath in a rush, slumping down as if tired beyond belief. Despite himself, despite his hatred for the ones who had harmed Arren, Kell was gradually warming to this woman - his revulsion was directed, not towards her, but towards the cloak she wore. If it turned out she was lying, and had chosen that cloak willingly, it would go hard with her; if it had been forced upon her, she had his sympathy.  
Then she raised her head, and the sorrow and anguish in those dark eyes removed the last shadow of doubt from his mind - this woman was telling the truth.  
"They took me over land and over sea, in a ship that travelled faster than any I had ever seen. To Paln, to their own land. He," the compulsions were biting down now, but she fought them, forcing out the words through tight-clenched lips, "he told me they'd...they'd," she could not say the word, avoiding it instead, "that the lord of that island was theirs, and that they needed me to help them against..." Again the word was forbidden to her lips; her face twisted and she stabbed a finger out, pointing first at the bulkhead behind Kell, then to the tattered, bloodied remnants of his cloak. Her meaning was obvious - _Roke_.  
"They..." Her breath was coming in shallow gasps now, the binding spells causing her obvious pain; still she fought to form her words despite them. "They wanted..._him_," jerking her head upward and circling her head with a finger - _circlet, king - Arren..._ "so that between them they could rule the Archipelago. They," she was almost crying now, but her will drove her onward, "they see it as their right; they are all of the line of the Kings of Paln - they say they are taking back...what is...rightfully theirs..."  
Her breath choked; for one terrible moment her eyes rolled in panic, then the grey lines loosened slightly, and she could breathe again - though they did not return to how they were before. Then they had been dormant, so close to invisible that Kell had overlooked them; now they thrummed with power, awake and very much alert. He closed his tired eyes and hoped against hope that they had not roused the dark mage.  
  
**  
  
For a long time Arren simply lay there, surrendering to his hurts, wishing for the painless dark of unconsciousness that would not come.  
He had felt worse, it was true; as a child he had broken his arm during sword training, and the pain had made him almost bite his tongue in two, but that had been pain like two great waves crashing upon the shore - one for the breaking, one for the setting, with nothing but a dull ache between. This was constant agony, with no respite. There was nothing he could do to make the pain go away, and that impotence made it a thousand times worse. The knowledge that something could be done, that eventually suffering could be made finite, was be a great buffer against pain; without it, there was only hopelessness.  
Yet he clung on, forcing himself to think, to try and find a way out, though he knew it to be impossible.  
_A half-grown boy against five dark mages, without even a sword. I wouldn't last a minute._  
One question plagued him, flooded his thoughts - where was Kell? If the mages were to be believed, he was somewhere aboard ship - below decks, most likely. No doubt he, too, was bound, and prevented from casting any spell - and if they had done this to him, who knew what they had done to the wizard, useless to them and helpless against them. In his mind's eye he saw his lover, broken and bleeding on the floor of some dark cabin, and it was all his fault...  
_I should've known better; I should've protected him better. I should've...  
Oh, Kell..._  
Despite himself, tears welled up hot and stinging into his eyes; the physical pain he could resist, but this was beyond him. His heart ached till all his other hurts were almost drowned out; he doubled over again, sobs racking his body, guilt and fear and loneliness overwhelming him like never before. In that moment, he realised that he had come to rely upon Kell - for counsel, for companionship, for _closeness_. Not just as a lover, but also as his dearest - and closest - friend.  
And now, who could tell where he was...  
  
**  
  
Kell felt his heart sink ever further as the woman before him continued her story. As she spoke he compared it with one he had heard - a tale shared with him by the Master Patterner during his time in the Immanent Grove. A mage called Irioth - the Patterner had used his true name, saying that it no longer mattered, that he had gone beyond his name - had sought to take the power of others by perilous use of the Art of Summoning. He had used it to call, not the shades of the dead as the Master Summoner did, but the spirits -and bodies - of the living; he took their power, and bound them that they could say naught of it.  
He thought of Irioth, who had been fought and overcome by the Archmage, and who had gone beyond his name; and he saw in that tale the truth of what had happened to the woman.  
By spells can men be forced to do many things - though that art was forbidden on Roke, and was taught only in the teaching of defence against it. But one thing could not easily be compelled - the use of a gift of magic against the gifted's will. That spell was the hardest of all coercions to weave, and the least successful; and it became harder and less successful as the gift compelled became rarer and stronger. Patterning, the rarest and most powerful gift, could not be compelled at all.  
When she had refused to help them willingly the black mages had tried to compel her to their service, but her gift of spellsong, though not the greatest gift, was too rare, and they did not know how to control it. Her voice could be made to sing, or to speak the words of the spell, but the two would not come together unless she chose.  
So they had found another solution - an even worse perversion of the Summoner's Art than that used by Irioth, and one that made his skin crawl to think of it. When a live person was summoned in the flesh, it was a battle of power and of will; if the one summoned was weaker than the summoner, their will and their power became his tools. However, the spell for such live-summoning was a difficult one to work, and very tiring - it could not be maintained for long.  
Instead - his mind still refused to believe it, rejecting the thought as too terrible - they had summoned her spirit into the body of one of their number, the woman whose face he now saw before him, and trapped her there. She had fought them, managing to keep control over almost everything bar her gift - hence the need for the coercions. But now she could not resist - she would sing at the will of the lead mage, with no more control over her voice than a hawk had control over the winds.  
He had even managed to glean a little of how they intended to use her - that had slipped past the compulsions, though it had cost her. They thought to use her talent to surprise any who opposed them - spellsong was such a rare, wild talent that few opponents would be warded against it. Already she had been their tool in several such battles - the most recent being that against the chief wizard of the Lord of Paln. She had - at their behest - insinuated herself into the court of Paln, then used her talent to lull the wizard into an enchanted sleep, allowing the others to dispose of him easily.  
Abruptly, he was roused from his contemplation by the conclusion of her tale.  
"...I have to ask: can you break these spells they have set?"  
  
She looked at him with pleading eyes; he could _see_ the bonds around her, thin as thread, grey as smoke, but with a hold stronger than iron. To break them was beyond him, far beyond him, but it was possible to _loosen_ them slightly. Coercions were often highly specific; she would be forbidden from freeing him outright, unbinding his hands or unstopping his mouth - anything that allowed him to cast a spell - but he might (if he were able to cast) be able to _bend_ the restraints sufficiently to allow her to unbind his legs and help him walk, help him find some other way to free his hands.   
The paradox, then - how to open the box with the tool that was inside? How to loosen the coercions, when he could not cast the spell allowing her to help him? There _had_ to be some way - he _must_ get free, must find some way to help Arren...  
She leaned forward eagerly, obviously encouraged by what she saw in his eyes. "Can you do it? Can you free me? Can you," her voice caught on a sob of hope, "can you set me free?"  
His mind cried out at the desperation in her voice, and he hoped his eyes did not say too much, did not tell her what he could not risk, could not bear to say - that that was impossible. That she was trapped. That her abandoned body had given up its life when she left it, and now lay rotting in the grave. That the _other_ person in her head, the mage whose body she had been forced into, would never leave her - she would ever hear its voice whispering in her ear, ever have to fight it for control of a body that would never be truly hers. That even if the Masters of Roke lifted every coercion, every spell from her, she would never be truly whole again.  
She did not see, or perhaps did not want to see; instead, she looked aside, her lips moving as her mind began to race. "If you...if you could tell me the words of the spell somehow, I could say them for you. He's stopped my singing voice, but I can still speak; they're so different, song-spell and spoken-spell, and I only ever had the gift for one. But if you can give me the words..." She tailed off, chewing her bottom lip, then sat forward again. "I heard...I heard that wizards can talk without speaking, if they have to. Talk without moving their lips, and the listener would hear them even if their ears were stopped. Even if," she ran a finger over the fabric of his gag, but pulled it back with a soft cry when the coercions stung her, "even if the wizard's mouth were stopped."  
  
Kell considered this for a moment. He _could_ speak mind-to-mind, but that route would be closed to him - the gift worked, it was true, as long as the recipient was willing, but the coercions would surely block her from hearing him.  
However, he sent out a tentative whisper to check - and found the channel was not completely blocked. She could not speak to him in return, but she _could_ hear him - or so he thought. With her 'voice' silenced, it was almost impossible to tell whether she could hear his - like speaking to a dumb person, unsure of whether they were also deaf.  
But she had two voices, mind-voice and speech-voice, and with one she could tell him whether she could hear the other.  
He extended a questing tendril of thought - _can you hear me?_; her face was all the answer he needed.  
"Yes!" she gasped, her eyes widening, one hand flying to her mouth.  
_I can tell you the words; you must speak them exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?_  
"Yes," she said again, calming herself visibly; her face assumed an expression of grave concentration.  
_Very well. Speak thus: Solve catena, tolen viss. You must say it twice._  
Her voice shook slightly as she pronounced the words, carefully and accurately; he relaxed his mind, letting his gift work through her as her lips shaped the words. He saw the bonds flare up, and shut his mind against the danger - the dark ones were sure to have been warned by now. He only hoped that he could find some way to free his hands before they came.  
"Solve catena, tolen viss." As she spoke the spell a second time, he saw one loop of the compulsion spells fade, its light diminishing, its tension lessening, and he knew that the spell had worked.  
So did she; the look of relief on her face told him that, but it was tempered by suspicion and disappointment.  
"That's only one; the others are still there." Her voice was plaintive, like that of a child; he closed his ears to her distress, hating the lie even as he mind-spoke it.  
_I know. That's all I could do; it'll let you untie my legs. Then we have to find something to cut my wrists free; I can't allow you to undo them. Once I can cast spells myself, I can take the rest away._  
Her face shone with hope, and she leapt forward to untie the ropes around his legs; he averted his eyes, unwilling to see the false hope he had created, focusing on the end rather than the means - _I must help Arren..._  
  
The sudden flow of blood to his legs took his breath away; he almost collapsed again when she helped him to his feet. Walking was hard enough with his hands bound; with the pins-and-needles shooting through his numbed legs, it was all but impossible. She supported him, and together they were halfway to the door - when it was flung open by the chief mage, his face murderous.  
  
**  
  
Eventually Arren managed to choke off his tears, blinking to clear them from his eyes; he lifted his head from the deck, and in that moment saw a shaft of sunlight spear down through the thunderheads, striking golden shimmers from something that brought his heart into his mouth and sent a great surge of hope through him.  
A white ship, heading towards them under full sail, its bow cleaving through the waves and sending up vast showers of spray to sparkle in the sunlight.  
_Roke has been roused! The Masters are coming!_  
The mage at the stern had seen it too; he spat into the water and turned to the blind weatherworker, calling, "More wind, you fool! They're coming!"  
The leader turned in the bows, his cloak flying out around him, snapping in the already strong wind; he made as if to go astern, but stopped, head raised like a questing dog.  
Then he spun on his heel and headed for the hatch to below decks, boots ringing on the deck, spitting curses as he did so. "That bitch is helping him! To me!"  
As one, two of the mages - the stern lookout and another, young-looking with long black hair - left their posts and followed him.  
Arren closed his eyes and shouted inside his head, praying that Kell would hear - _they are coming!_  
  
**  
  
His arm shot out, pointing straight at her; she was flung back against the bulkhead like a doll, collapsing to the floor, covering her head with her hands. Without her, Kell could not stay upright; he stumbled, falling awkwardly at the mage's feet.  
"Traitorous _bitch!_" spat the mage, towering over her as she cowered on the floor. "Did you think I wouldn't hear? Did you think you could just _let him go?_" He drew back his foot and kicked her hard, catching her in the throat; she rolled over, choking. "Were you planning to run away? Take him with you, maybe?" He kicked her again; two more of the mages appeared in the doorway, dragging Kell roughly to his feet, forcing him to watch as she was beaten. Each sentence was punctuated by another kick, more vicious than the last. "Didn't you know? The boy isn't interested in _you_, you pathetic whore. He prefers his own sex, don't you?" The mage whipped round, hitting Kell hard across the face; beneath his gag, the wizard felt his split lip reopen, blood trickling hot and metallic onto his tongue. "Enjoys playing woman for the _king_." Another blow; behind his tormentor, Kell could see the singer moving feebly, massaging her bloody throat. All his hopes had been dashed; even had his hands been freed, he could never have stood against one, much less three of them.  
_I was such a fool - Arren, Arren, forgive me..._  
The third blow sent him falling into darkness.  
"Kell!" The shout burst from Arren's lips before he could prevent it; the sight of his lover, beaten and bloodied, being carried unconscious between two of their enemies, was too much for him.  
"Quiet." One of them dealt a kick to him in passing, and sneered down at him.  
He ignored the threat, rolling over and pushing himself to his knees. "What are you doing with him?"  
The mage dropped his burden, leaving the other to drag the lifeless wizard across the deck. "That bitch managed to get his legs untied, so we thought we'd put them to good use. He's going to walk right over the stern."  
"NO!" Arren's chest felt as though it might burst.  
"Oh, yes," the man leered. "He'll drop right into the path of your avenging angels. That ought to give them something to think about - one of their own, drowned like a rat."  
Arren threw himself at the man, but though he wrenched at his bonds he could not tear his hands free; the man simply stepped back out of range and dealt him a stunning blow to the temple, then dragged him upright.  
"Come, your majesty," he mocked, "come and watch your whore go overboard."  
Though Arren struggled and kicked with all his might, he had no choice. The mage in front of him dumped Kell's limp body on the deck and dashed seawater into his face until the wizard came round, then hauled him up by one arm and shoved him towards the stern, where the chief mage was laying a plank up to the stern railing. As Arren watched in horror, the leader spoke a few words and Kell's legs began to move in a horrible parody of walking. He stumbled and staggered to the bottom of the plank, then, fighting with every shred of will, placed first one, then the other foot on the plank and began to lurch along it.  
Desperately, Arren fought his captor, lashing out with feet and with his bound hands, but to no avail; the man merely held him tighter, and every movement earned him another blow. His efforts became more and more violent as Kell neared the end of the plank, but he could not get free, and had to watch as the wizard, looking back with his green eyes beautiful and sorrowful and afraid, stepped out onto empty air and fell towards the heaving ocean, both hands still tied tightly behind his back 


	6. Struggle

It was cold, freezing cold. The shock of impact sent his senses fleeing for cover of darkness; the cold overwhelmed the few that lingered. The sudden fiery chill caught at his chest, and though he tried to control it his mouth opened in a great gasp, his lungs welcoming their own destruction, drawing a great cascade of stinging, freezing seawater into his body.  
He coughed, retched, choking violently; his eyes were blinded by the salt, his ears filled with the ringing of the sea, his mouth deluged by wave after wave so that the water rushed back in even as he coughed it up. Kicking hard, lungs burning, he managed with the last of his strength to turn himself onto his back, so that he floated even as consciousness fled... 

He stood in a crisp bowl of light, watching the sunbeams shatter and scatter and play over the fountain's basin. Its white marble glistened in the sunlight, striking tiny rainbows from droplets caught in the fronds and furs of mosses that grew in cracks around the rim.  
Before him and all around him, rippling behind the sheet of fine spray thrown up by the fountain, rose the weathered grey walls of the Great House of Roke. Their imposing grandeur should have shadowed the courtyard in gloom, but instead the square was light and empty. Above his head, stretching higher than he could reach, young trees of ash and elm, of hazel and rowan waved their slender branches, dancing slowly with the breeze. Unseen, birds sang softly in the fragrant spring air, their liquid song mingling with the laughter of the fountain and the quiet murmur of the leaves as they shifted restlessly in the wind.  
The sky above was clear and blue, the fountain's water cool on his fingers as he reached, entranced, for the nearest sparkling jet, watching as the crystal droplets ran together and formed a pool in the cupped palm of his hand. Dappled sunlight shimmered off the surface of the water, and he was suddenly aware of his thirst.  
  
It should have seemed like sacrilege, but somehow it was the most natural thing in the world to lift his hand to his mouth and slowly tip the water onto his tongue. His eyes widened at its cool sweetness, gently warming in his mouth; he swallowed, gasping as it chilled his stomach.  
Slowly, a strange feeling began to move through him, spreading outward, gradually suffusing his body; an odd, cool, tingling sensation, as though the water had mingled with his blood and now flowed within his veins. He shook himself, surprised - and realised that more was changing than mere sensation. It seemed as though the fountain sang softly to itself in a tongue that he could understand, though the words slipped away when he tried to reach for them; it seemed that the birds spoke to each other of matters ordinary to them, yet beyond his comprehension. Even the leaves seemed to be whispering words that only half-formed inside his head, so that though he tried he could not catch their meaning.  
And even as the world whirled around him, it was as if a white light began to burn, strong and steady; he focused instinctively on it, one point of constancy in the sudden maelstrom of understanding.  
The light came closer, and through the murmur of the fountain and the chatter of the birds he heard a voice, low and quiet, yet with a deep strength in it beyond anything he had ever heard; it was speaking the language of the birds and of the leaves, a language that he now felt he had known all his life, a language that was not only spoken but lived and breathed and danced...  
Strong hands touched him lightly on the forehead, on the temples, on the shoulders, and the roaring in his ears died to a murmur, a whisper, and was gone. Yet he knew that it was not gone, only quieted; that he could, if he wished, hear any part of it again.  
He realised that he had closed his eyes as the first touch fell upon him; now he opened them, and the transition from darkness to incandescent light made him flinch and screw them up again.  
Gradually, his sight returned - and when it did so he quickly knelt, for the man in front of him, dressed in a robe of the purest white, was none other than the Archmage, the man they called Sparrowhawk.  
  
A touch made him lift his head, and through the trailing ends of his blonde hair he saw the man who had tamed the Dragon of Pendor, who had sailed the Dragons' Run unscathed, and who had brought the Ring of Erreth-Akbe back from its tomb in Atuan, whole and remade. His face was reddish-dark, with a nose like the beak of a hawk; white scars traced across his left cheek, four thin, deep scores like the clawmarks of some fell beast. He carried a staff, a stout length of dark yew, but neither leaned on it nor held it like a weapon; instead he held it as a craftsman holds a tool, lightly and easily, with a touch born of long acquaintance.  
"Rise, boy," he said, his voice calm and even, "and tell me why you've come."  
The boy stood, nervously, pulling his letter of introduction from the pocket of his tunic, fumbling and almost dropping it in his haste; he waited whilst the Archmage read it, trying to stop himself from shifting from foot to foot in his disquiet.  
Finally the hawk's head lifted and the dark eyes fixed him with a steady gaze. "I know your master's name, Kell of Ilien; I studied with him in the Immanent Grove when Starrel was Patterner. But that does not answer my question. Why have you come here to Roke?"  
  
Consciously or not, Kell had schooled himself for this moment, readied words and explanations, but something in the air, something in the water, something in the Archmage's voice made only the truth possible, and it came spilling out of his mouth in a great rush. The knowledge that he was different, that he wanted things others did not, and could do things that others could not; the knowledge that a gift lay within him, untrained and largely untapped; and the need to do something with that gift, to train and tap it, as anyone would wish to tap a well in a dry land.  
Throughout it all the Archmage regarded him impassively, nodding here and there; when Kell had finished, he sat down on the edge of the fountain's basin and stared into the crystal water that rippled there with unseeing eyes, drawing his white cloak close about his shoulders. For a long time he merely gazed into the shallow bowl, until Kell thought himself dismissed and turned to go; then the Archmage rose, reaching out and taking Kell by the shoulder even as the boy turned back to face him.  
Those bright, fierce eyes seemed to look into him and through him, reading every thought, every impulse, every desire as though they lay spread out below him on the paving stones; then the feeling passed, and the dark eyes softened.  
"Eyes that see, and ears that hear, and to have drunk from the fountain; is there no end to your talents, boy?" A hand was on Kell's chin, tilting his head up so that his green eyes met the Archmage's. "Let us see."  
The man's hands shifted to rest atop Kell's head, and he began to murmur the words of a spell; hearing those words with his new inner ear, Kell recognised them as a fortune-telling charm, used by witches as they sang over runestones or ogamsticks so that they would give up the secrets of the future. It seemed strange to the boy that so great a man as the Archmage would use a witch's charm, but he bore the man's touch without complaint, submitting to the spell like a tame animal. And as he did so, he realised that in the Archmage's hands, this spell had true power, and a far greater scope than the simple will-he, won't-he of a rune casting.  
  
What the Archmage's eyes saw, he did not know, but it seemed as if they stood there whilst the years passed and the trees grew, and the sun whirled across the sky. Images flashed before Kell's eyes - of a white city by the sea, and a bright sword atop its highest tower; a great rust-red dragon, framed by the fire of sunrise over some far island; and a grove of trees, ancient and slender, glowing green and golden in the sunlight. He saw himself walking in the quiet beneath those trees, gazing up at the shining sword, and - his breath caught in his throat - speaking to the dragon with arms outstretched, dwarfed by its immense bulk. Then his eyes burned, and the visions were gone before he could catch them and store them in his memory, gone like a dream that vanishes on waking.  
When he came back to himself, the Archmage's eyes were fixed on him, contemplative, thoughtful. He shook his head a little, trying to clear the last of the disorientation, and dropped his eyes before that evaluating gaze.  
But the man said only, "Welcome to the School, boy. Hawthorn there will take you to your room."  
  
Turning, Kell found a boy a few years older than himself, tough and wiry like his namesake and clad in the grey cloak worn by all students of the School, waiting in the archway through which he had entered the courtyard. He knelt again to the Archmage, keeping his head bowed as he rose and walked to meet his guide; when he paused under the archway and looked back, the man had resumed his seat on the fountain's brim and was staring into the water, murmuring gently to himself, his voice almost lost amongst the chatter of the fountain and the whisper of the trees.  
Then Hawthorn touched his arm, and he was led away through a maze of corridors, to find a cloak, a room and some food - for the journey from Ilien had been long, at least for one as unused to travel as he, and he had not eaten in some time...  
  
Ged watched him go from beneath hooded eyes, musing on what he had seen as the foretelling did its work. The picture had been hazy and incomplete, as any vision of the future must be, but whilst Kell had seen scenes and places, he had seen faces - a young man with a waterfall of dark hair and depths of strength and sorrow in his eyes; Azver the Patterner, his ageless, ice-green eyes creased as if in pain; another man, his face handsome and cruel, bright scheming eyes beneath drawn-down black brows; and the face of Thorion the Summoner, only that face was a corpse, with maggots crawling in the sockets of its eyes. And last of all he had seen the face of the boy himself, the green eyes dim and empty, the features slack as though in death, the golden hair limp and straggling wetly across dead-white skin.  
Beyond that all was darkness, but that itself was strange, for foretellings did not follow the dead across the Wall; had the boy truly died, the spell would simply have ended there, its power spent. Instead, there was a sense of something out of reach, hidden from view; something that was not the blankness of death.  
  
For a long time Ged simply sat, listening to the talk of the fountain, contemplating what he had seen, and pitying the boy for the weight that must, in time, lie heavy upon his shoulders. In silence he sought the boy's true name, and into his mind there came an image - that of a young tree, its branches heavy with yellow catkins. He shook his head, saying to the fountain and the trees and the sky,  
"When my name has been forgotten, yet men will speak of you."  
A trill of birdsong made him look up, to where two trees, a rowan and a hazel, had grown close together, their branches reaching for one another as a lover reaches for the arms of their beloved. They whispered to one another in the wind, the contented murmur of two who have been long in each other's company and have long ceased to need words to say what can be said by touch alone.  
Slowly, the harsh white scars that seamed his left cheek creasing as he did so, the Archmage began to smile.  
  
For a moment Kell thought he could still feel the fountain's spray cool on his cheek and the warmth of the sun on his forehead, but the gentle past evaporated as consciousness slowly returned. That cool spray became a torrent of icy water; the sun's warm radiance became the burning cold of the storm-tossed sea. The shock helped bring his wandering mind back to his battered body, whence it had been driven by the impact with the unforgiving waters of the ocean.  
He writhed desperately, fruitlessly against his bonds as wave after wave broke over him; his hands were held fast behind him, and he choked as freezing seawater cascaded into his mouth. Water already rattled in his chest, preventing him from drawing breath. Darkness began to encroach at the edges of his vision; the strength began to seep from his limbs, drawn like the heat from his body, escaping into the bitter ocean.  
Still he struggled, the water-softened skin of his wrists tearing against the tarred ropes as he fought his bonds. The sudden sting of salt on wound caused him to catch his breath, but cuts and bruises all over his body were already screaming; he caught his lip between his teeth and prayed for the icy water to numb his pain. He didn't care that his suffering was the only thing keeping him conscious - it was now only a matter of time before the cold overcame his resistance. Only minutes before his lungs gave up their fight, before his life, too, leached out into the relentless waves, a spark snuffed out by the uncaring waters.  
He thought he heard a splash somewhere off to his left, a sound like a stone tossed into the water, but the howling of the wind and the roar of the waves made it difficult to be sure. The chill was already numbing his arms and legs, the pain easing, replaced by the dull ache of creeping cold. Frigid tendrils reached toward his heart, seeking the last of his warmth, seeking to draw it out of him and leave him floating cold and lifeless on the waves...  
  
He could not feel the hand that closed around his arm, but he felt the tug as tide fought grasp; the numbed tingle from his lacerated wrist roused him enough to struggle half-heartedly against the grip.  
Strong hands caught him underneath his arms, stilling his labouring resistance and buoying him up against the cloying pull of the ocean. His head broke surface, and he gulped in breaths of air he had not known he lacked, his chest heaving convulsively as his lungs fought to expel the invading water. He could not think, could not feel; the whole universe contracted down to his need for the next breath, the desperate battle to fill his burning lungs.  
"Stop struggling, boy," a voice hissed in his ear, a voice that caught at his memory, that would have been familiar had the searing pain in his chest not filled his thoughts and swept away any chance at remembrance. It was hoarse with effort, shaking with the unbearable cold, yet held a deep resonance that he knew he would remember if he had but a moment...  
Then consciousness fled again, and he slumped limply against the Master Chanter's chest, only the Master's hand beneath his chin keeping him from slipping beneath the surface and drowning.  
  
The Chanter stared down at the pitiful limp bundle on the deck, making no move to help the comatose boy; blood dripped from his hand where the rope that had brought both he and the boy to safety had torn away the skin. It now hung slack around his waist, trailing through the mess of mingled water and blood that flooded the deck, scarlet streams chased and divided as the rain poured down.  
Before him, the Masters Patterner and Doorkeeper knelt beside Kell's unconscious body, the Doorkeeper turning the boy's head aside as the Patterner pounded his back. After a few moments Kell coughed and retched, seawater spilling from the corner of his mouth. Life returned to his lifeless body, sight to his sightless eyes; he trembled, trying to move.  
"Lie still," the Patterner said quickly, his hand on the boy's arm, and, "Give it time," murmured the Doorkeeper, examining Kell's wounded wrists, his robe stained with the blood which still pulsed red from the ragged tears wrought by the cruel rope. The Changer and Windkey stood over them, the latter wringing his hands in distress.  
"If only the Herbal had come," he was saying, agitated. "The best healer in Earthsea, and we didn't bring him. Deyala could have healed him with a touch..."  
He broke off, the words choking in his throat as the Patterner's head snapped upwards, eyes blazing; the Doorkeeper touched his hand, a restraining gesture, then unobtrusively drew some white bandages from the pocket of his robe and bound Kell's bleeding wrists.  
"Is the Unmaking come already, that true names are spoken aloud, and carelessly?" His voice was quiet, mild, chiding, his hands deft and gentle at their work; the Patterner's green eyes still burned. The Windkey stammered, his hands still twisting over one another; then he hung his head, and the Changer took his arm to lead him away.  
"We are come on strange times." The Chanter's voice was still rough with cold, but he spoke with a singer's resonant tones and practised cadence. "It may be that we will wish for the Master Herbal before this day is out."  
At that the Doorkeeper too raised his head, and his calm eyes smiled a little in the dim light. "_No knife can wound the righteous, no spear can maim the just,_" he quoted, raising a weak smile in answer from the Chanter as the other recognised the familiar Deed of Morred. Then the sparkle in his eyes died, though his placid expression did not change. "If five of us cannot mend this wound," and he laid his hand over Kell's heart, "all the Herbal's skills would not avail us."  
At that the Chanter bowed his head, but not before a cloud had passed over his face - the slightest shadow, a wince as at a painful memory. He caught Kell's eye and drew the rune Ges, that gives strength, in the air; but he did not smile, and drew away without a word.  
Into the silence the Patterner spoke, his voice little more than a breath above the hammering raindrops and the crashing of the waves.  
"Strange times indeed, when the Windkey's tongue is loosed and the Chanter's bound."  
At that the Doorkeeper's quick smile came again, the lines around his eyes deepening, but he signed the Patterner to silence, and bent again over the frightened, bloodied boy.  
  
Nothing happens quickly at sea, even when ships fly on wizards' winds. As far as Arren could tell, the two vessels were almost evenly matched - the ship from Roke was lighter, fleeter, but the Pelnish craft carried more sail. So he lay there, now bound hand and foot, on the soaking deck as the stormbringer's tempest howled around him and great waves broke over the bow of the ship, straining for a glimpse of the Masters' ship through the storm. Occasionally one of the mages paused in their scurrying to kick him or spit in his hair, but he bore the abuse with an unwavering stoicism, ignoring the shooting pains in his bruised crotch that threatened to double him over, ignoring the hot-ice ache of a sprained ankle, ignoring the sickening waves of nausea that made the bile rise in his throat. Looking always for an opening, a second of lapsed vigilance, a chance to free himself and flee for safety.  
A slender hope, but one to which he clung with all his might, if only to prevent the guilt from rising up and overwhelming him. He had no way of knowing if Kell was dead or alive; the only reason he had not shared that desolate, uncertain fate was because he was _useful_. He should have bargained, traded on that usefulness, pleaded for his lover's life. If Kell were dead...  
_No._ He shook his head violently, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender to the rising panic. _I had no hold on them._ Bound and helpless as he was, what could he have threatened? Better that he make himself of use now, watching for that slender chance of freedom. Yet in his mind's eye he could not help seeing the waves carrying Kell's body further and further from him as the black-sailed ship flew over the waves to Paln.  
His sword still hung at his side, useless with no hand to wield it. It lay heavy on his hip, as though weighted by the centuries, as though it chided him for his weakness. He twisted, wrenching the muscles of his arms, fighting against the ropes that held him, but they only bit more tightly into his skin. So weak, that he could be held thus! No spells to bind him, no enchantments to stay him; only a few handsbreadths of rope, and he was helpless.  
  
Enraged by his own impotence, he writhed again, and bit his lip as the ropes chafed him, hating the tears that rose hot and stinging into his already swollen eyes. _No sword, no spells, no aid, and alone amongst powerful enemies. What am I to do?_  
_Wait, and watch,_ his mind answered. _Watch for anything you can use. Rivalries, arguments, jealousies - if there are none, create them. They have a common goal - the throne of Havnor - but only one can wear the crown. They must come together to defeat Roke, but each will ever be watching the others, watching for the first sign of treachery. Once Roke is beaten, it will be every mage for himself. That is their weakness - and one that can be exploited by anyone, mage or no._  
Slowly, deliberately, Arren pulled his knees up to his chest, then tried to roll until they were underneath him. Every muscle in his abused body protested, but he clenched his teeth against the pain and levered with his elbow, forcing until he thought the bone would snap, pushing with all his strength against the dead weight of his body. In the chaos of the storm he had been flung across the deck, finally coming to rest against the gunwale, and now he used that surface as a brace to push himself over. Twice the motion of the ship defeated him, pitching him back onto his side just as he thought he had achieved his goal; on the third attempt he used that motion to help him, gauging the right moment to push so that the shifting of the deck toppled him over onto his knees.  
He stayed motionless for a while, head resting between his legs, while the world spun around him. Even that little effort had tired him beyond belief, and he once more cursed his weakness.  
Eventually he regained his equilibrium, and tried to prepare himself for the beating he was about to receive. He closed his eyes, reaching down inside himself to tap that deep stream of strength that flowed within him, that had brought him across the dark land living and to the far shore of the day. Forgotten in its soaking amulet bag around his neck, the small stone that he had brought from those dark mountains shifted as his shirt stretched across his chest, biting into his skin even through the thick, soft fabric of the bag, and he smiled, knowing that what strength had done before, it could do again.  
First, the distraction. He threw back his head and began to sing.  
  
His voice was rough with disuse, made husky by salt and weak by pain, but he fed it with his strength as one feeds a flame with wood. Slowly the thin, wavering notes became fuller, more resonant, pealing out even over the roar of rain and sea. He sang the first song that came to mind, the first he had ever been taught - the _Deed of the Young King_, and as he sang he smiled, for it told of the victory of the White Enchanter over his dark Enemy. The song lent hope to his heart, even as he knew the singing would bring him pain.  
And it did; his enemies swung round, faces twisting with anger, already striding toward him as he soared into the second canto. His split lip had cracked open, and blood trickled freely down his chin, mingling with the freezing rain and stinging sea-spray, but he sang on uncaring.  
The first blow caught him across the side of the head, slamming his face against the wet, rough wood of the gunwale, cutting off his song. The second hit his aching shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.  
"Stop!" The word lashed out like a whip; his two tormentors whirled round to face the speaker. The lead mage stood there, one hand upraised, eyes flaring.  
"I said enough! Let the boy sing, let him scream, let him curse our souls, I said enough!"  
The young, long-haired mage stepped forward, his hands clenching into fists, anger flashing in his eyes. "And since when did you care about his suffering? Let him learn that we are his masters now!"  
"We need him _alive_, fool. The boy only has so much blood in him. When the time comes it shall flow to your heart's content, but not _yet!_"  
Arren let his head loll against the planking, feigning unconsciousness as the argument raged around him. Tempers were short, with Roke so close; he hoped that he had lit the fuse of a powder keg, hoped against hope that he had helped the Masters, however little.  
Perhaps he could manage more. Carefully, slowly, he tugged at the bonds that held his arms. He had been tied wrist to elbow, his arms folded in a parody of relaxation behind his back; his right hand was at his left side, mere inches away from the hilt of his sword. If he could draw it an inch, work his bonds against the edge...  
Of course, the slightest misjudgement and the sharp steel might cut his wrist to the bone, leaving him bound and helpless on the deck while his lifeblood trickled from his veins, but with his lover already dead in the freezing waters, what would that matter? At least he would deny the mages their triumph, prevent them from legitimising their rule. For now, though, the fire of life burned hot and insistent in his blood, crying out to him to take every chance.  
  
He dared not move too openly, lest his pretence be discovered, but he shifted as slowly as possible, hiding his left side against the gunwale. He stretched the fingers of his right hand until they ached, until cramp began to bite into his wrist; the pommel of his sword brushed tantalisingly against his fingertips, strangely warm against his cold skin. A moment's rest, and then he strained again, stretching till he thought wrist and elbow and shoulder would all come from their sockets, finally managing to hook two fingers around the hilt. He tightened his grip to the utmost, until his whole arm screamed with tension, and then began to draw...  
The whisper of steel on leather was barely audible above the howl of the storm, but Arren's heart rejoiced to hear it. Now, carefully, carefully - too far, and the sword would clatter to the deck and betray him; not far enough, and it would not reach his bonds. Another inch, tortuously slow, another - it slipped from his grasp, sliding too quickly from its sheath. He grasped frantically at the blade, feeling it bite into his fingers, slicing into the soft pads of flesh. Hot blood welled up from the cuts, spilling down the blade and leaving no stain, washed clean away by the rain.  
He had it, though, a hard-won prize. Before its keen edge the rope parted, though so slowly that he almost cried out in his impatience. Any moment the mages would notice, would see the constant shifting of position required to keep his bonds moving over the sword blade, and he would be lost. He dared not imagine what they might do to him; he had endured all the pain that violence could inflict, but spell could wreak more havoc than boot or fist.  
  
Finally; a faint pressure on his wrist, and then the rope fell away. His left wrist was still bound, tied tightly to his right elbow, but he had a slight range of movement with his sword-arm - and a second's grace in which to use it. No use in freeing his legs - where was there to run? No; better to do as much damage as he could in the time that he had, and hope to win the Masters whatever advantage he could give them.  
He threw himself forward, bringing his arm around as hard as he could, the sword keening through the air, and felt the blade bury itself deeply in the calf muscle of the closest mage.  
  
In that moment, even as he drew back his arm for a second strike, even as the mage's high, unearthly scream pierced the storm, a long grinding crash rent the air, and he knew they were aground. They were on Paln.


End file.
